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A 


LEAFLESS SPRING. 


BY 


OSSIP SCHUBIN, 


AUTHOR OF 




" COUNTESS ERIKA’s APPRENTICESHIP," “ Q THOU, MY AUSTRIA !" ETC. 



n 

AKTER TRR Q E R IVI A N 




BY 


MARY J. SAFFORD, 

TRANSLATOR OF "THE BURGOMASTER'S WIFE," ETC., ETC., BTC. 


Qu’as-tu fait, qu'as-tu fait de ta jeunesse? 


3 ^ 


'foi,rV 

PHILADELPHIA: ^ 

p J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, 

t 1893. 

( 

I 





/. 


Copyright, 1893, 

BY 

J. B. Lippincott Company. 


Printed by J. B. Lippincott Company, Phiudelphia, 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


I. 

‘‘ Kuined !” His brother had just told him so, 
curtlj and bluntly. He mechanically repeated 
the word; he could not grasp its true meaning. 
“ Ruined !’’ He smiled while uttering it, as if dis- 
cussing some amusing subject. 

‘‘Yes, completely ruined !” his brother repeated, 
but in a very different tone, a stern, rebuking voice 
which compressed into the one short word a whole 
lecture, — “ completely ruined ! We discussed the 
matter yesterday with Hunter for two hours. 
After settling your debts you will have, by very 
careful investment of the remainder of your 
capital, an income of three hundred pounds per 
annum.” 

“ Three hundred pounds !” said the ruined man, 
slowly. “ Three hundred pounds !” he repeated ; 
“ and I am to live on that!” 

“ It is all you have left,” repeated his brother, 
with a sort of cruel satisfaction, as if he wanted to 
say, “ I always told you so.” 

“Ah, but you are forgetting something,” re- 
plied the younger, phlegmatically, — “ credit, my 

3 


4 


A LEAFLESS SPUING. 


dear fellow, the most faithful friend of lavish 
spendthrifts, a sort of Marshal Bertrand for accom- 
panying ruined rascals to St. Helena. 

The older brother’s face grew grave, nay, his 
expression became actually puzzled. 

This momentous conversation took place in Lon- 
don on a rainy day in May — what May day in 
London is not rainy ? — in a handsome suite of bach- 
elor apartments in the second story of a house in 
Mandeville Place. The exterior of the house was 
chocolate color, smoke-blackened, bare, and ugly, 
like almost all London dwellings, but the room 
where the two brothers were was a little master- 
piece of tasteful comfort. Beautiful pieces of old- 
fashioned carved wooden furniture were crowded 
among deep, low arm-chairs, ottomans covered with 
Persian rugs, and all sorts of valuable artistic cu- 
rios ; the fragrance of fresh flowers blended with 
the smoke of Turkish tobacco. Every variety of 
hot-house blossom which could be obtained at that 
season was arranged in ;^aience jars, tall glasses, 
or small vases of Venetian glass decorated with 
gold arabesques. Color effects were studied every- 
where. The damp, rainy air streamed in through 
the windows, but a bright, cheerful Are blazed on 
the hearth. 

On the walls of the apartment, which was some- 
what low for its dimensions, hung pictures of gen- 
uine value instead of the odalisques and dancing- 
girls which usually decorate bachelor lodgings, — a 
Corot with spring foliage lashed by the wind, and 
air-sprites dancing in mad merriment, a flower- 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


5 


piece by Diaz, and several landscapes by Claude 
Monet. The little room was evidently the abode 
of an epicurean whose senses had been ennobled 
by contact with a very idealistic soul. 

One felt an involuntary thrill of sympathy for 
the man whose good taste had created this envi- 
ronment, with which, moreover, he was in perfect 
harmony. He was an Englishman, an Englishman 
to the finger-tips; but he belonged to that class 
created by the levelling spirit of contradiction in 
England which forms so striking a contrast to the 
Pharisaic condemnation of pleasure characteristic 
of the average Briton. 

His capacity for enjoyment left nothing to be 
desired, and he imposed very little restraint upon 
his epicureanism. Talented, not without pene- 
tration, impulsive in judgment, hasty in action, 
and capricious, he was, nevertheless, very tender- 
hearted. A spendthrift by nature, he fiung nothing 
more lavishly into the highway than the wealth 
of his heart, which he squandered right and left, 
without asking whether the creatures on whom he 
bestowed his affections were worthy or not. He 
could not endure the sight of suffering f 

His outward aspect corresponded with tne inner 
man. He was tall and slender, with a frame which 
had been steeled yet at the same time rendered 
supple by all sorts of athletic exercises; his feet 
were long and slender, but large rather than small ; 
his hands very beautiful in form, strong and brown, 
with slim fingers. His head bore a resemblance — 
by no means rare in England — to Lord Byron. 

1 * 


e 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


The curly, light-brown hair was cut very short ; the 
brow was broad and straight ; the nose short ; the 
mouth and chin were unusually well shaped ; the 
upper lip was rather short. Of course he did not 
habitually keep his eyes wide open and uplifted 
with the conventional gaze of enthusiasm which we 
see in Lord Byron’s numerous busts and portraits. 

Jack Ferrars was undeniably an attractive speci- 
men of humanity, but he had his faults. He was 
reckless and had a reprehensible inclination to run 
into debt. 

Meanwhile, Jack’s remark concerning credit had 
greatly excited his elder brother. 

Credit !” he cried, “ credit ! Don’t you under- 
stand that it is unprincipled to use credit which no 
longer has any foundation ? Who is to meet your 
obligations ?” 

Jack thrust his hands deep into his pockets. 
“You, I suppose,” he said, lazily, raising his eye- 
brows. 

“I? Why should I suffer for your extrava- 
gance ?” 

Sir Bryan Ferrars was in every respect the ordi- 
nary Englishman, or, to avoid any possible offence to 
his august person, the ordinary English gentleman. 
True, his grandmother had been a washerwoman, 
and his grandfather had made his way up from a 
common workman to a wealthy manufacturer, but 
he had forgotten the first fact, and no longer believed 
the second. That his maternal grandfather had 
been an earl, on the contrary, was ever present to his 
mind. He formed in every respect a most striking 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


7 


contrast to his brother, being of middle height, 
bald, faultlessly shaved, faultlessly dressed; pale, 
formal, with no individuality except that of his class 
and his nation. He produced the impression of a 
colorless, tasteless fruit which has ripened in the 
shade. 

"WTiy should I suffer for your extravagance ?” 
cried this pattern Englishman, fiercely. 

“ The support of poor relations is a tax which a 
man like you pays to his position,’’ replied Jack, 
leaning comfortably back in his arm-chair and 
blowing rings of smoke towards the ceiling. 

“You have no comprehension of the phrase 
which supports civilization, the sense of duty,” 
angrily retorted the baronet, who, among other 
characteristic traits of the class of human beings to 
which he belonged, possessed that of not under- 
standing a joke. 

Jack glanced with a very humorous expression 
through the blue curtain of smoke which separated 
him from his brother. 

“ But, my dear fellow, how am I to exist ? I can’t 
live on three hundred pounds, even in Boulogne. 
H’m ! I might enter into an agreement with my 
Chinese friend Ten-ar-hae and open a tea-shop in 
Bond Street, in case you make up your mind to 
advance the necessary capital.” 

“ I have no ready money at my disposal,” replied 
the baronet, coldly ; “ besides, I must say frankly 
that it seems to me you might undertake some- 
thing else, something which — ah! — which would 
not lower our family.” 


8 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


“ Yes, but what am I to do Jack raised bis 
eyebrows inquiringly. 

First of all, you can sell your art-treasures,” 
cried the baronet, tartly, as his eyes wandered over 
the pictures adorning the walls. Your expendi- 
tures in this direction have always been beyond 
your means.” 

‘‘Ah, part with my favorite pictures? Per- 
haps you mean to buy them at a reduced price, 
Bryan ?” 

“ I should not object to doing so.” 

“Aha! That’s very delightful! Well, we can 
make a rough estimate at once. There’s the 
Crome, — three hundred pounds.” 

“ Two hundred and fifty would really be a very 
high price,” replied the baronet, eagerly. “ Chris- 
tie’s last sale showed a marked decline in the value 
of the old English landscape-painters.” 

“Indeed! Then I’ll wait for the next rise,” 
J ack answered, coolly. “ A thousand pounds for 
the Corot.” 

“Jack! are you crazy?” cried Sir Bryan, who 
seemed to regard the offer as a direct attack upon 
his purse. “ Five hundred pounds would be 
ample.” 

“A difference of opinion between two equally 
competent judges of art,” replied Jack, raising 
his shoulders. “ I value my Corot at a thousand 
pounds.” 

“ H’m ! Shall I send an expert to appraise the 
pictures ?” asked Sir Bryan, after a pause. 

“ Yo, thank you. I’ll see to it myself; but on 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


9 


farther consideration I have given up the idea of 
parting with my paintings.” 

‘‘ Then how do you mean to live ?” 

“ On my income,” Jack answered, humorously. 

“ That is impossible !” Sir Bryan retorted. 
“ But you know how hard I have always tried to 
help you. I have never hesitated at trifles.” 

“ You were always generous to me. I owe you 
that inkstand,” observed Jack, pointing to a huge 
monstrosity which adorned his writing-desk, and 
on which two funeral urns guarded by two sphinxes 
rose from a black marble slab. ‘‘ Well, then, what' 
proposal have you to make ?” 

^‘Your university education entitles you to a posi- 
tion in the Church. I have a living in my gift ; it 
is at your disposal.” 

‘‘ Ah ! five hundred pounds a year and, if I am 
fortunate, an invitation to dine at the manor-house 
twice a month. Do you know of nothing more 
tempting?” drawled Jack. 

1^0 !” said Sir Bryan, curtly, almost impatiently. 
His brother’s careless tone irritated him. ‘‘ Con- 
sider the matter. Come and dine with us to-mor- 
row^ — no, let it be lunch ; I remember that we have 
invited several to dinner, and London dining-rooms 
are so inconveniently small.” 

‘‘Pray make no more excuses; it isn’t worth 
talking about,” Jack laughed good-humoredly. 

“ Why — of course one can speak frankly to rela- 
tives.” The baronet drew out his watch. “My 
time is up !” he exclaimed. “ I must go to the 
house. So farewell. Jack, — until to-morrow. 


10 


A LEAFLESS SPEING. 


Think of my offer, — ^there is a beautiful garden at 
the rectory.” With these words this model of a 
virtuous Briton and affectionate brother van- 
ished. 

Jack remained standing in the middle of the 
room with his hands thrust into his pockets and 
his shoulders raised almost to his ears, gazing into 
vacancy with a very strange smile on his lips. 
Suddenly the door behind which the baronet had 
disappeared opened again. 

“ Have you forgotten anything, Bryan ?” asked 
Jack. 

“Yes, my umbrella. There itis. Thanks.” Then 
leaning on the gnarled handle of his umbrella, the 
baronet gazed thoughtfully at his younger brother. 
“ An idea has come into my mind,” he said. 

“ What is it ?” 

“You might marry.” 

“ I ?” Jack started in surprise. “ What put that 
into your head? To the best of my recollection 
I have compromised no young lady by any special 
attentions of late, so I deserve no lectures on that 
subject.” 

“Oh, this is no time for poor jokes; you must 
attend to improving your circumstances.” 

“ Ergo, engage yourself as soon as possible to 
some unprotected young creature who has a million 
in her purse and — unluckily for her — an unoccu- 
pied heart in her breast, and then persuade your- 
self that you have fallen in love with her in order 
to find a plausible excuse for stretching yourself in 
a comfortable nest,” said Jack. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


11 


“ You are as fond of talking as some people are 
of drink,” said the baronet, reprovingly. 

“ Yes, that’s why you wanted to put me in your 
pulpit !” cried Jack. “ But — h’m ! — if I’m to turn 
my loquacity to account professionally, I should 
prefer to try Parliament. By the way, couldn’t 
you help me to a political career ? Or would you 
fear my rivalry ?” 

“ Oh, don’t talk such nonsense !” muttered the 
irritated baronet. “ I have no more time to lose. 
It was only a suggestion.” 

“A vague one, — or have you thought of any 
special person ?” asked Jack. 

‘‘ Of course.” 

“ Whom ?” 

‘‘ Mary Winter,” said the baronet, quietly. “ I 
don’t see why you shouldn’t marry Mary Winter.” 

Why you shouldn’t marry Mary Winter.” Of 
all his long conversation with his brother Jack 
remembered only that one sentence. He glanced 
around the comfortable room, and a strange 
feeling stole over him, — the feeling a person 
has who is running up a hotel hill which he can 
no longer pay. “I must give notice,” he mur- 
mured. For the first time he realized what a total 
change in his whole life, what a sacrifice of all his 
pleasant, expensive habits, was connected with the 
loss of his property. “H’m! To live on three 
hundred pounds a year or run in debt!” he 
muttered. 

Hitherto it had troubled him very little to run 
in debt. Of all his comfortable, expensive habits 


12 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


this was the most comfortable, the most costly. 
In the expectation that everything could be easily 
settled after the death of an old aunt who had 
promised to make him her heir, he had paid with 
the utmost indifference his three, four, nay, on some 
occasions five, per cent, monthly. But — but 

There are three things which will render the 
most kindly women cruel : to wound their vanity, 
to excite their jealousy, or to offend their sense of 
decorum. This latter crime (it often proceeds 
from mere want of tact) Jack had committed 
against his Aunt Jessamy. 

Aunt Jessamy was a spinster of eighty, who 
cared for three things alone : her religion, her 
prudery, and — Jack. She went through life armed 
with a pair of blinders so large that she had 
actually managed to exist eighty years without 
any suspicion of the wickedness of the world and 
the young men who were in it. Once, at some 
races where Jack had not expected to see her, she 
discovered him with several other very gay young 
fellows on a drag beside a very pretty young lady. 
She beckoned to him. He fiushed crimson. A 
friend of hers, who was not well disposed towards 
Jack, explained the situation. The consequence 
was that she spent a sleepless night, and the next 
day sent for her lawyer, with whose assistance she 
completely changed her will. She died before she 
had time to be reconciled to Jack and repent her 
precipitancy. 

When the document was opened it appeared 
that she had left her whole fortune to build a 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


13 


house for Christian youths in the East End of 
London, — a Young Men’s Home on a religious 
foundation. 

This was a disagreeable surprise for Jack, and 
the consequence of it — namely, a close examination 
of his financial circumstances which resulted in 
the discovery of a great shrinkage of his property — 
proved more disagreeable still. 

To have no more debts !” he murmured, “ to 
have no more debts !” 

* Three hundred pounds, — nothing but three hun- 
dred pounds a year, and this sum he received from 
the rent of two houses in a remote suburb of 
London. True, there were building lots adjoining 
them, — building lots which, however they may 
appear, always afibrd a splendid arena for the 
hopes of people who chance to be in pecuniary 
need. Yes, the building lots would sell for a 
round sum some day, — ^but when? — and mean- 
while Jack was beginning to consider the 

matter seriously. Suddenly his thoughts were 
checked by an obstacle which aroused his distrust, 
though a very acceptable future lay beyond it. 
‘‘Well,” — he passed his hand across his brow, — 
“ well, h’m !” — this time his thoughts cleared the 
obstacle, — “ well, it is certainly very foolish to re- 
ject wise advice merely because it was given by 
a stupid fellow. Why shouldn’t I marry Mary 
Winter, after all ?” 

He stretched out his long arms, yawning and 
twisting as a school-boy does before he can make 
up his mind to set about preparing a specially 
2 


14 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


tiresome exercise, then starting up, he seized his 
hat and cane, ran down-stairs to the street, hailed 
the first hansom he met, and calling to the driver, 
‘‘ Ivy Lodge, Putney,” rolled on towards the fur- 
ther development of his fate. 

Mary "Winter was Jack’s step-cousin. His aunt 
was Mary’s step-mother, consequently they had 
both had, as it were, the same grandfather, though 
in other respects they certainly possessed very little 
in common. 

There is in England no caste confined rigidly to 
children and grandchildren. Ho country in Europe 
grants to human ambition a freer, more individual 
development. With the aid of a university edu- 
cation any one may attain the highest position in 
the land, — ^below the crown, — namely, the Order of 
the Garter and admission to White’s , — vide Lord 
Beaconsfield. 

There is no impenetrable exclusiveness in Eng- 
land. But, on the other hand, there are two 
classes of humanity that hold rigidly aloof from 
each other, — the class which seeks pleasure and 
the class which is bored. Of course this applies 
only to the educated classes. 

True, there is also a third class, — the people, hut 
they have no time for pleasure or boredom. Be- 
sides performing the hard labor of the nation, they 
serve as an object for investigations of questions 
of national economy, as well as various humane 
or inhuman experiments, thus forming, as it were, 
the background for the other two classes, — a very 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


15 


gloomy background, against which one stands re- 
lieved in a variety of brilliant colors, the other in 
simple gray. 

In the former class pleasure, ennobled to an art, 
nay, almost elevated to a science, forms the one 
serious life-task of its members. In the latter, peo- 
ple turn from it as a spell of Satan and stop it on 
the frontier of the virtuous community as a con- 
traband article. Human nature, of course, asserts 
its rights, often in a very turbulent fashion, but 
we will not enter into detail at present. 

Although Jack Ferrars was Mary’s cousin, he 
belonged to the class of pleasure-seekers and Mary 
to the one which is bored. 

It happened in this way. Jack’s grandfather, 
as has been said, was an intelligent workman who, 
by long, persistent labor, by the invention of im- 
provements in weaving, by clever combinations 
and unexpected pieces of good fortune, had first 
risen to be a partner in the business and later 
the independent head of one of the largest firms 
in Manchester. At sixty he was an immensely 
wealthy man, who, besides extensive weaving- and 
spinning-mills, owned various other property, — a 
large country estate in Oxfordshire with a park 
larger than many a German nobleman’s estate, a 
conservatory where all the year round he could 
gather bunches of grapes whose colossal size might 
vie with Joshua’s of Biblical fame, and a residence 
which he had rebuilt according to his own taste — 
many people lamented it — from a picturesque ruin 
of the Elizabethan style to a somewhat sombre 


16 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


modern structure, whose rooms were so large that 
each would have held a village church and steeple, 
and whose lower floor, through its lofty plate-glass 
windows, afforded a view of a lawn stretching like 
a green-plush carpet between huge rhododendron 
hedges and lofty ash-trees. 

Besides all these things he had two children, a 
son and a daughter. The education of the daugh- 
ter, who was several years older than her brother, 
occurred in a comparatively undeveloped stage of 
the Ferrars family ambition. Very talented, read- 
ing all kinds of interesting literature, and keenly 
appreciative of artistic beauty, Jane Ferrars had 
found it impossible to lead the repressed life, dark- 
ened by all sorts of alarming religious chimeras, 
of the prosperous hut narrow-minded class to 
which she belonged. She had longed for a wider 
view of the world, and at last persuaded her father 
to send her to Paris to cultivate her talent for art. 
She spent two years in the city, two years during 
which a romance was enacted. She fell in love 
with a young French artist, but after a short en- 
gagement the tie was severed. Ferrars senior 
would not consent to the marriage, and the young 
artist, Armand Sylvain, could not marry without 
it; that is, without financial aid. They parted 
without rancor ; Armand Sylvain had cloaked his 
cowardice and comparative indifference under the 
guise of chivalrous sacrifice, and Jane Ferrars had 
been too proud to scrutinize these chivalrous mo- 
tives closely. Soon after she returned to Man- 
chester, every feeling of her soul crushed save her 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


17 


self-respect. Her position in her father’s house 
was uncomfortably changed, especially when her 
brother, after a brilliant debut in Parliament, mar- 
ried the daughter of the Earl of Fenniston, Lady 
Emily St. Clair. 

The latter, it is true, always showed her sister- 
in-law the warmest sympathy, but Jane’s brother 
constantly became more unkind. 

Their father had now given up business entirely 
and retired to the magnificent estate of West- 
burne. Here Lady Emily did the honors as host- 
ess ; poor Jane was continually forced farther into 
the background. At last, merely to get out of the 
way, she married the first respectable man who 
offered himself to her, a widower, the father of 
two children, to whom she filled a mother’s place. 
His name was James Winter, and he was a thor- 
oughly decorous, uninteresting representative of 
that English middle class which is forever repressed, 
forever abashed, forever struggling, yet forever 
dreading to be caught in the act of this strife, the 
class with which Jane was wholly out of sympathy, 
and from which she had tried several years before 
to escape to Paris. 

She had never had a single thought in common 
with her husband; she rarely spoke to him, but 
she kept his home in order, saw that his meals 
were punctually served, and directed, as well as she 
could, the education of his children. 

Jane Ferrars, once so gay and full of life, now 
belonged, through her marriage, to the world where 
people are bored. 
b 


2 * 


18 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


Her life diverged more and more from her 
brother’s. But every year they spent a few weeks 
together under the same roof, — the roof of the 
remodelled manor-house in South Oxfordshire. 

So it happened that Jack had played croquet 
with his little step-cousin, Mary Winter, on the 
lawn in front of the long plate-glass windows. 

Wliile driving in his hansom past an endless 
row of chocolate-colored architecture towards his 
Aunt Jane’s residence in Putney, he was thinking 
of those old days. 

He saw his grandfather so distinctly that he could 
have touched him, a raw-boned, thin old man, with 
a deeply-lined red face, to which his bushy white 
brows and closely-cut white heard — he wore his 
uppper lip smooth — formed a strange contrast. He 
had stubby, calloused hands, to which grime seemed 
to cling, no matter how often he washed them ; he 
had never learned to use the letter H properly, and 
while eating always thrust his knife into his mouth. 
Every servant in the manor was more at ease in 
it than the old man to whom the house belonged. 
He always appeared like some stranger who had 
wandered there by accident ; he always felt that he 
was one. He was under constraint with his ser- 
vants, with his guests, nay, even with his own chil- 
dren, and, though he felt an earnest desire to have 
them beneath his roof as often and as long as pos- 
sible, he avoided them as much as he could. With 
bowed head and hands clasped behind his hack, he 
used to walk up and down some secluded avenue 
in his park, muttering to himself and apparently 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


19 


wondering why his hard-earned wealth did not 
afford him the pleasure he had anticipated. When 
speaking to any of his family his manner was im- 
perious and irritable, while his glance was timid 
and distrustful. 

When little Jack, weary of playing and shout- 
ing, lay at night in his little cool, white bed, he often 
puzzled over the problem of his grandfather’s ec- 
centricities. WTiy was his grandfather Ferrars so 
different from Jack’s other grandfather, the Earl 
of Fenniston? 

Yet one day he struck up a friendship with this 
curious grandfather who abused the letter H and 
always ate with his knife. 

The old gentleman had taken a great fancy to 
the merry, brown-haired boy, — a fancy which was 
touchingly displayed in many clumsy ways. He 
often made him little presents, slipped a shilling 
into his hand and then looked hastily in another 
direction. 

WTien Jackie was playing croquet with his 
brother and his cousin, the old man would stand 
near the ground, with his legs very far apart and 
his face full of anxiety, watching the game, but 
his eyes constantly rested on Jack; Once Jack 
went up to him and asked if he didn’t want to play 
too. The old gentleman appeared so astonished by 
the child’s unexpected advance that his hands ac- 
tually trembled. ‘‘Ho, no, — thank you, my boy; 
thank you, my dear!” he stammered, and went 
away. 

Another time Jack saw him sitting alone on a 


20 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


bench under an old elm, with one heavy hand rest- 
ing on each knee. Jack nestled close to him, said 
several pleasant things, and finally sat down by his 
side and tried to entertain him as well as he could. 
But suddenly, with the artless rudeness of children, 
he pointed to the old gentleman’s hands and asked 
in a low, almost solemn tone, as if expecting the 
revelation of some mysterious secret, ‘‘ Grandpapa, 
why are your hands always black ?” 

The old man started, looked intently at the hands 
to which the boy had just pointed, as if his atten- 
tion was directed to some new discovery, then hid 
them in his pockets. But when Jack, who in- 
stantly perceived that he had made a blunder, 
climbed on his knees and hugged him, his red face 
twitched. Drawing out the big hand which he had 
just concealed because he was ashamed that it must 
bear the stamp of hard labor so long as he lived, 
he spread the boy’s little delicate one out on its 
horny palm, and said, — 

“ I have made my hands black so that you can 
keep yours white, Jackie.” 

Jackie did not understand the words then, but 
they made a deep impression on his heart, and from 
that hour he was his grandfather’s loyal friend. 

Unfortunately, the old gentleman could not bear 
his idle life long. Less than six years after he 
retired from business he died, though the physician 
could find no disease except complete decline of all 
his vital forces. Jack’s father was now sole mas- 
ter of the big house with the long plate-glass win- 
dows on the lower floor. Various tasteful altera- 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


21 


tions were made in the splendid mansion ; it was 
restored to an appearance of antiquity with as much 
zeal as J eremiah Ferrars had displayed in render- 
ing it new. The changes unquestionably improved 
it, and the guests who, after the decorous time of 
mourning had expired, gathered to enjoy the com- 
forts of Westhurne Hall and admire its newly-ac- 
quired art-treasures, were far gayer and more agree- 
able than those who had visited Grandfather Ferrars. 
But J ackie often thought of the poor old man with 
sincere sorrow, and said to himself, ‘‘ He made his 
hands black so that we could keep ours white.” 

Once, when there was an unusually gay party 
and the broad avenue in front of the castle flamed 
with huntsmen in scarlet coats, mounted on blooded 
horses whose sleek sides shone like satin, Jackie 
suddenly felt so sad that he could scarcely restrain 
his tears. It seemed as if the whole brilliant com- 
pany was rejoicing because his poor, rich grand- 
father was dead. 

Meanwhile, as a reward for his distinguished po- 
litical career, to which his father’s wealth formed 
an admirable setting. Lady Emily St. Clair’s hus- 
band was made a baronet. He was now Sir John 
Ferrars, and commissioned an expert in heraldry 
to find him an authentic genealogical tree. This 
agent brought to light some very remarkable 
things concerning the past history of the Ferrars 
family. 

Jack was reared exclusively in aristocratic circles, 
but nevertheless always maintained his relations 
with his Aunt Jane. He wrote long letters to her 


22 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


from Eton, and, when lie went later to the Univer- 
sity at Oxford, of course entering Christ Church 
College, he even did the honors of the picturesque 
old town for two days to his aunt and cousins. 
Yet, spite of his efforts, he always felt that he was 
a stranger to the two girls. "With his aunt the 
case was very different; he always cherished for 
her the tender sympathy which kindred souls 
preserve, notwithstanding all harriers of time and 
space. 

Whenever they met he was sincerely delighted, 
and treated her with the tenderness of a son. But 
he saw her more and more rarely, and during the 
past few years had thought of her step-daughters 
so seldom that to-day, while driving to Ivy Lodge 
with matrimonial intentions, he really did not know 
whether Mary Winter’s hair was black, red, brown, 
or golden. 

A loud altercation which arose between his own 
driver and another cabby concerning a wrong turn 
roused J ack from his reveries. He looked out and 
perceived that London, the real London, was al- 
ready behind him. Instead of the long, monoto- 
nous rows of chocolate-colored houses, the archi- 
tecture of these residences was diversified by all 
sorts of picturesque caprices. 

The houses no longer stood close together, but 
were surrounded by fresh, leafy gardens. Lofty 
ash- and elm-trees towered into the damp, gray 
air above the ancient gable-roofs. Immense rho- 
dodendron hedges, bearing clumps of pale lilac 
blossoms, grew between them. A stretch of pas- 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


23 


ture-land bordered one side of the street; then 
came a Gothic church with stiff, gloomy arches ; 
then gardens, more gardens, and finally more spe- 
cimens of architectural caprices, usually in the 
Elizabethan style. 

Gr-rr. The cab stopped before Ivy Lodge, the 
house which Mrs. Winter had occupied since the 
death of her husband, a year before. 

So this is Putney ?” murmured Jack, as his 
eyes wandered over the gardens and the lofty 
roofs, most of which were covered with semicir- 
cular tiles. “ Extremely unfashionable, but pretty. 
I have a strong liking for Putney.” 

He nodded encouragingly, as if begging the 
whole suburb not to feel the least embarrassment 
because so great a gentleman had wandered there. 
He scanned everything with a tourist’s curiosity. 
Paris, Calcutta, and San Francisco were familiar 
scenes to him, but he had never been in Putney. 
Wimbledon Common was a discovery. He had 
never visited his aunt here. 

A surly old servant opened the door of the hall. 
An odor of hot oil-cloth and mutton-broth greeted 
him. His liking for Putney diminished. He had 
an aversion to mutton-broth and oil-cloth. When 
he asked if the ladies were at home the man hesi- 
tated. At last he answered, ‘‘ Yes, hut ” 

Jack handed him his card, and told him to take 
it to his mistress and let him know whether she 
would receive him. He had no doubts on that 


score. 


24 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


Yet what did the servant’s “ but” mean? Was 
one of his cousins engaged ? And had her fiance 
just arrived ? 

He was beginning to feel annoyed, when the 
door opened and the man asked him to walk into 
the drawing-room. 

This was a long, comparatively low apartment, 
with a very light paper and furniture covered in 
the same hues. The windows extended to the 
fioor and looked out upon a velvet lawn, which re- 
minded Jack, like a miniature edition, of the broad 
expanse of turf before the Oxfordshire house 
where he had played croquet with his cousins in 
his childhood. A weeping-ash, whose branches 
trailed on the ground and cast a broad, tremulous 
shadow on the short grass, stood on this little lawn. 

Before the hearth, on which a small wood-fire 
was burning, sat an elderly lady with bands of 
hair brushed smoothly over her ears beneath a 
small black cap bordered with white, the becoming 
widow’s costume of Englishwomen. Her black 
dress, trimmed with crepe, fell around her in grace- 
ful folds. A small low tea-table stood at her side, 
and behind her was a Japanese umbrella. 

IV^hat a charming picture ! Jack thought. He 
was genuinely glad to see his aunt again. In spite 
of her feminine charm, the quiet, unassuming 
charm of an old woman who has forgotten life’s 
fever and for whom selfish vanities no longer ex- 
ist, she reminded him of the grandfather with the 
black hands. Hers were very white, and her face 
was far more delicate and beautiful than the old 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


25 


gentleman’s had ever been, yet her features re- 
vealed traces of the keen, simple intelligence which 
had enabled him to hew out his own career, — the 
unbroken vigor of feeling which he had retained 
to his life’s end. Only her dark-brown eyes some- 
times sparkled with an almost playful mirth which 
was wholly alien to old Ferrars’s temperament, and 
which his daughter had probably inherited from 
the beautiful Irish mother who, as we know, was 
only a washerwoman. 

She looked up pleasantly as Jack entered, and a 
faint flush tinged her cheeks, the flush any sudden 
emotion causes in delicate elderly women. 

‘‘ Is it really you ?” she exclaimed. I could 
scarcely believe my eyes when I read your name 
on the card Smith handed to me. I thought it 
must be some other Jack Ferrars.” Her voice 
was hoarse and slightly tremulous, hut expressed 
touching, though carefully-repressed joy. The 
young man hastily approached and raised her hand 
to his lips. 

“What made you remember us again so sud- 
denly, you young scapegrace ?” she exclaimed. 

Jack, whose knowledge of the true motive of 
his visit,* the pursuit of a wife, began to weigh 
heavily on his heart, became somewhat confused ; 
then utterly forgetting all his evil designs, he threw 
himself into a low chair at the old lady’s feet, ex- 
claiming, “ Ah, auntie, don’t ask me; show a little 
pleasure that I am here.” 

“ Indeed I will !” replied Mrs. Winter. Then, 
putting both hands on the young man’s shoulders. 


26 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


she gazed at him with joyful pride, the joy with 
which an old person sees blooming young life, the 
pride we feel in our own flesh and blood when we 
behold it in a nobler, more beautiful form. 

Taking his head between her hands, she kissed 
him and patted his cheeks. These warm, sponta- 
neous caresses had a peculiar charm for him, — they 
expressed the artless love of the common people. 

Pleasure, you wicked fellow ! Do you know 
that you have grown much handsomer since I saw 
you last 

‘‘Don’t spoil me. Aunt Jane,” he answered, 
gravely. 

“ As if that wouldn’t have happened long ago, 
had there been any danger of it,” replied the old 
lady, laughing. “ But now tell me what you have 
been doing all this time. Will you have a cup of 
tea, my boy ?” 

“ With pleasure, aunt.” 

“ ril make some fresh for you.” 

Stopping his attempted protest, she said, “ Let 
me have my own way ; you must be comfortable 
in my house. To spoil those whom we love to 
our heart’s content is the greatest pleasure we 
old people can enjoy.” 

She rang the bell, ordered the lamp under the 
tea-kettle to he freshly lighted, and produced from 
a secret drawer in her cabinet a special kind of 
tea brought from China by a relative and used 
only on extraordinary occasions. 

Jack talked and laughed with the old lady, 
sometimes telling an anecdote bordering on doubt- 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


27 


ful ground, for wliich she dealt him a reproving 
little tap, though secretly enjoying it. 

Suddenly an odd idea entered Jack^s mind. 
“ Will you sit still a little while, — there, — just as 
you are now, aunt ? I should like to sketch you 
as you sit, — with the flying Japanese stork in the 
background.’^ 

She was ready for anything. After a short 
search he at last found, with Smith’s assistance, a 
pen and a sheet of paper suitable for his purpose, 
and set to work. The old lady watched him with 
a loving smile. 

It is strange what an efiect you produce upon me, 
my boy,” she said. ‘‘ Have you ever noticed in the 
spring how the oldest wainscoting sometimes creaks 
and snaps ? Some impulse from the great force 
which is making the trees outside put forth leaves 
steals through the dead wood, and it dreams of life. 
WTien you are with me it seems as if spring was 
approaching, and I, too, dream of life. What a 
pity that you are not my son !” she murmured. 

“Well, who knows? what is not may be,” he 
answered, looking up from his drawing with a 
forced laugh. 

“ Ho,” she said, “ that wouldn’t do. My step- 
daughters are both excellent girls, but they don’t 
suit you. A sunbeam barred in a cellar would 
symbolize your condition in a marriage with Sarah 
or Mary. You are a child of light and summer, — 
my two girls belong to darkness and winter. The 
clock was just striking the hour of noon when you 
opened your blue eyes for the flrst time ; instead 


28 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


of crying you laughed. You laughed in my face, 
you rogue, for I was the first to welcome your 
little life. I was not present when Sarah and 
Mary were horn, hut I am sure that both wailed 
most mournfully when they first opened their eyes 
in this world.” 

Jack sighed thoughtfully. “ Turn your face a 
little more towards the fire, aunt,” he requested ; 
then a short time after, lifting his brows a little, he 
added, “ Where are my cousins ?” 

“ I am expecting them every moment,” replied 
Mrs. Winter. “Mary drove into the city with 
Lady Byng to attend a Woman’s Suffrage Meeting, 
and Sarah had something important to do in the 
district.” 

“ They both lead very serious lives,” Jack 
remarked. 

The old lady shrugged her shoulders. “ What 
can you expect ?” she cried. “ Both have a great 
deal of money and a great deal of time. Sarah has 
an object in life, and Mary is seeking one. It is no 
wonder, considering the surroundings amid which 
they grew up. I was too weary to labor against 
the oppressive influences by which they have been 
environed from infancy. So they have become 
what they are, — admirable girls, melancholy as 
English Hovemher weather, without a touch of 
cheerfulness. They are, I believe, absolutely sure 
that gayety, under all circumstances, is a sin. You 
haven’t lost yours yet, have you, my boy ?” 

“ Hot up to this time,” replied Jack, somewhat 
dispiritedly. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


29 


‘‘ Treasure it as long as possible !” cried the old 
lady. “You see, — say what they will, — sincere, 
blithe cheerfulness is the incense which must be 
most pleasing to our Father in heaven. I pity 
these melancholy devotees who worship the Deity 
with wailing and gnashing of teeth. They all 
sing out of tune, and I am certain that God must 
close His ears during their serenades.” 

“What is Sarah’s object in life?” asked Jack, 
with some degree of curiosity. 

“ Sarah’s object in life,” she began, but she 
could not finish the sentence, for at the same 
moment a young woman in a Salvation bonnet, 
a black hat of peculiarly unbecoming shape, made 
specially for the female members of the Salvation 
Army, tore open the door, exclaiming, “ I have suc- 
ceeded in seeing the chief of police of the district ; 
he will place an officer at my disposal next Sunday !” 
as she approached the couple sitting by the fire. 
This attractive creature was Jack’s cousin Sarah. 

Five minutes after the young man had learned 
his energetic cousin’s object in life. She was toil- 
ing to rid Great Britain of drunkenness. She had 
taken an oath never to touch a drop of intoxicating 
liquor, no matter if during some period when her 
strong constitution was weakened a sip of wine 
would save her life. How she was self-sacrificingly 
doing her utmost to convert her countrymen to 
the same abhorrence of spirituous drinks. 

Last Sunday she had spent three hours in a 
carriage outside of the private entrance of a tavern 
3 * 


30 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


officially closed on account of the observance of 
the Sabbath, watching to catch the innocent chil- 
dren sent by parents who were forgetful of their 
duty to fetch unlawful refreshments, often in the 
shape of a harmless jug of beer. 

“ Just think, I caught no less than eighteen such 
little sinners I” she said to Jack, triumphantly. “ I 
wrote down all their names and gave them to the 
police.’^ 

“ You cried Jack, in horror. 

“ Certainly, in person ! I am in correspondence 
with all the police officials in the district,” she 
added, with a certain air of pride. 

“That’s just as you fancy,” replied Jack, to 
whom the charms of this correspondence did not 
appear very alluring; “hut how can you report 
the poor things ? It’s shocking.” 

“ The reports are not directed against the chil- 
dren, but the parents,” Sarah responded. 

“ But the suffering will come on the children,” 
cried Jack. “ If the poor youngsters have respect- 
able parents, it wouldn’t matter if they did fetch 
their little Sunday treat ; if, on the contrary, they 
belong to miserable drunkards, as you believe, woe 
betide the poor things. They will be thrashed un- 
mercifully for being caught. And the parents will 
get their liquor in some other way.” 

“ Oh, my dear Jack, if a patient is to be cured 
of some serious disease he can rarely escape pain,” 
said Sarah, pedagogically. “ Only do not imagine 
that I use severity alone. I endeavor, by all sorts 
of innocent amusements, to lure the children to 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


31 


temperance. You can be present to-day at one of 
the little tea-parties I give every Saturday to per- 
suade them to join my cause.’’ 

At that moment Smith announced, The Rev. 
Jessaiah Juniper.” 

“ Ah, my colleague !” exclaimed Sarah, shaking 
hands with the new-comer. 

Jack looked up and saw a person whose legs 
formed the letter X, whose hair stuck out almost 
horizontally around his head, like blue-black wire, 
and whose face was the color of a cup of black 
coffee into which a few drops of milk had acci- 
dentally fallen. 

While approaching Mrs. Winter he first raised 
his eyes towards heaven, then, bowing very low, 
fixed them on the fioor. His vest reached to his 
high standing collar, his coat fell to his knees ; he 
had forgotten to remove his overshoes, and the hand 
not engaged in pressing his hat to his heart grasped 
the gnarled handle of a huge gray umbrella. 

All this was no new spectacle to Jack. “ The 
preacher to the poor in full canonicals,” he said to 
himself. Umbrella, uplifted eyes, and overshoes 
were familiar objects ; the only remarkable thing 
about this clergyman was his complexion. 

“Allow me to present my nephew, Mr. Jack 
Ferrars,” said Mrs. Winter. 

Jack rose and the missionary bowed ; then, turn- 
ing to Sarah, he asked, still pressing his hat to his 
heart, “ Has our congregation assembled ?” 

“Xo, not yet; but I am expecting the children 
every minute. If you will excuse me I will attend 


32 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


to the final preparations. Meanwhile you can en- 
tertain mamma.” 

‘‘ We’re in for it,” murmured Mrs. Winter, who 
seemed by no means pleased by this interruption 
of her conversation with her favorite nephew, and 
Jack glanced in the direction of his hat. ‘‘ Don’t 
leave me in this strait,” she whispered, with hu- 
morous energy. So he remained, not solely on 
his aunt’s account, hut because he suddenly recol- 
lected that his visit to Ivy Lodge was really for an 
important purpose, and if he went away with his 
object unaccomplished, he would scarcely deter- 
mine to go to Putney for a wife a second time. 
True, if Mary should bear the least resemblance to 
Sarah — ^he smiled grimly. 

As Jack and Mrs. Winter remained silent, the 
Dev. Jessaiah Juniper felt obliged to sustain the 
conversation alone. 

Half charlatan, half blockhead, he uttered with 
great complacency a series of religious platitudes, 
which fell from his lips one after another with the 
monotonous regularity of the grain flowing from 
a threshing-machine. 

This kind of obtrusive liberality with current 
religious wares was as familiar to Jack as the 
reverend gentleman’s umbrella, uplifted eyes, and 
overshoes. He still discovered nothing unusual in 
the clergyman except his complexion and peculiar 
type of countenance. 

Half mechanically he began to sketch beside the 
old lady’s likeness the grotesque figure of the black 
enigma. Jessaiah Juniper, who, endowed with the 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


33 


quickness and sagacity of a savage, instantly per- 
ceived Jack’s intention, far from taking ofience at 
it, stretched his black neck out of his stiff shirt- 
collar and assumed an effective pose. When Jack, 
greatly amused, laid down the pen with a courteous 
how, the other, almost vexed, exclaimed, “Pray 
don’t be disconcerted ; I am accustomed to attract 
attention, my dear young friend. A photograph 
of me exhibited in Regent Street was more in de- 
mand for a time than those of Mr. Gladstone and 
Sara Bernhardt. I am one of the celebrities of 
London. Oh, my dear young friend, have you 
never heard of the African missionary in the East 
End of London, the poor negro who came from the 
wilderness to remind the white men in the midst of 
civilization of the God whom they had forgotten ?” 

The dear young friend answered, with praise- 
worthy gravity, “ I had never heard of him, but I 
am very glad to make his acquaintance, and, if 

you will really allow me ” While speaking 

he had taken up the pen, and now requested the 
African emissary from heaven to turn his head a 
little to the right, but to put himself under no 
further inconvenience ; he might talk as much as 
he chose, he, Jack, would listen with the utmost 
attention. 

The missionary smiled unctuously ; then, clasp- 
ing and unclasping his black hands, he began in a 
sing-song voice, — 

“ It would certainly interest you to learn some- 
thing of my personality, some details of my life, I 
mean.” 


34 


A LEAFLESS SPEINO. 


“ Oh, extremely Jack protested, with genuine 
earnestness, sketching on zealously. 

With the automatic gestures and mechanical 
monotony of a child-wonder or museum phenom- 
enon relating his biography, the missionary began : 
“ I first saw the light of the world in llTew Orleans, 
a slave among slaves. From my earliest childhood 
I was remarkable for the excellence of my behavior 
and the rapid development of my intellect. My 
father was a negro, my mother a quadroon ; from 
her I inherited the few drops of white blood which 
destroyed the purity of my black parentage. These 
drops of white blood are the sore spot in my life ; 
I am ashamed of them, for my heart throbs solely 
for Africa ! Although my master, perceiving my 
unusual talents, had me taught reading and writing, 
as well as other branches of useful knowledge, and 
never wearied of trying to win my affection by 
lavishing upon me all sorts of indulgences with- 
held from the other slaves, I never ceased to long 
for Africa. My love for my ancestral country 
touched my master, and one day, after having un- 
intentionally fiogged two drunken slaves to death, 
he gave me my liberty. I was educated to be a 
missionary, and when a young man of four-and- 
twenty I reached the goal of my longings, — ^the 
land of my forefathers, — Sierra Leone. I wished 
to diffuse among my countrymen the light with 
which my own soul was filled. But — oh, shame ! 
— I resembled my own people too much to make 
any impression on them. To awe people you must 
be unlike them ; note that, my dear young friend. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


35 


Alas !’’ In the midst of his sing-song recital he 
turned his head towards Jack’s sketch. Very 
good, — an excellent likeness !” he exclaimed, but 
the hair is too short. I set great value on my hair, 
for I owe to my long hair and black face my pres- 
ent magnificent sphere of activity among the poor 
of London. But to resume the thread of my story. 
As it became more and more apparent that my 
labor in Africa was fruitless, and besides I could 
not bear the climate of my adored home, my 
friends persuaded me to move to London. Here 
— perhaps I may be permitted to say it — I have 
become in my modest way a personage, — ^the mis- 
sionary from Africa ! People who for years have 
been deaf to the ‘Word’ come to hear it from my 
lips. They come to look at my long hair and my 
black face, and then I talk to them of Jesus.” 

The Bev. Jessaiah Juniper extended his arms 
into vacancy as if longing to embrace all mankind, 
then turning from his universal philanthropy to 
address himself specially to Jack, he said, — 

“Would you like to have my photograph, my 
dear young friend? Perhaps, in many of life’s 
trying experiences, it may be important to you to 
remember this hour, — the conversation with the son 
of the wilderness, who came from Africa to bring 
light to the barbarians of civilization. Here is the 
picture. ” The missionary from Africa drew it from 
his breast-pocket, and continued : “It was taken 
by the same photographer who executed Mr. Glad- 
stone’s. Here, my esteemed young friend.” With 
these words. Juniper handed Jack the photograph. 


36 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


Mrs. Winter had shrugged her shoulders impa- 
tiently several times, now she yawned openly. 
Juniper’s repertoire was small; the speech just ad- 
dressed to Jack, and in which, besides the con- 
ceited phrases of his own invention, he had coolly 
incorporated many a sentence from newspaper ar- 
ticles, without further preparation or adaptation, 
he delivered with the same complacency to every 
one whom he met for the first time. Mrs. Winter 
knew every word of it by heart. Jack, however, 
to whom this piece of rhetorical art-work was new, 
felt no little amusement. Even in London he had 
never before encountered such a paragon of self- 
satisfied charlatanism and artless hypocrisy. 

I am deeply obliged to you for this token of 
your favor,” he said, bowing to Juniper, with so 
exact an imitation of the tone and emphasis of 
the missionary from Africa that Mrs. Winter was 
obliged to bite her lips to refrain from laughing. 
‘‘ But the value of this memento would be infinitely 
enhanced to me if you would kindly add your 
autograph.” 

Jessaiah Juniper’s thick lips curled in a gratified 
smile; then approaching the little table where Jack 
had been sketching, he dipped a pen into the ink, 
sat down, and propping both elbows on the table, 
almost rested his head on his left arm as he traced 
slowly on the back of the card, with the clumsy 
precision of a man who has learned to write late 
in life, — 

‘‘ All for Jesus and Africa ! 

“ Jessaiha Juniper.” 


A LJEAFLESS SPRING. 


37 


J ack received the little picture with a low bow 
and put it in his pocket. “You have done me a 
great honor, Mr. Juniper.” 

“ Oh, pray don’t speak of it,” replied the mis- 
sionary, modestly disclaiming the young man’s 
gratitude. “ I am always only too glad to meet 
any one who is interested in Jesus and Africa. 
Jesus and Africa !” He pronounced the last words 
in sing-song tones, making the final syllable of the 
word “Africa” sound very loud. 

Jack, who was obliged to add a few more strokes 
to his sketch of Juniper to complete the likeness, 
scanned his face closely. 

Juniper, who seemed to have lapsed into a state 
of mild ecstasy, now beat the air with both hands 
like a person practising the movements of swim- 
ming on dry land, and sang, — 

“ Let’s steal away to Jesus, 

Let’s steal away to Jesus ; 

For he’s a jolly good fellow, 

For he’s a jolly good fellow.” 

The pencil in Jack’s hand stopped, his gaze 
rested intently on Juniper’s black face. He would 
have made any wager that he had seen J uniper 

somewhere before, and But ere he could fix 

the vague memory Sarah entered, exclaiming, with 
sparkling eyes, “ If you please, Mr. Juniper, every- 
thing is ready !” 

Jessaiah Juniper rose and obeyed the summons. 

“If you want to see the performance, follow 
them,” said Mrs. Winter. 

Jack went to see the performance. 


38 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


In a large room whicli Sarah had had built at 
her own expense, at the rear of the house, about 
fifty children, with anxious, expectant faces, were 
sitting in rows on varnished yellow benches. All 
were neat and clean, some exquisitely pretty, so 
that Jack felt an almost unconquerable desire to 
pat their cheeks. 

Any such expression of tender feeling, however, 
was prohibited by the scene now before him. 

On a platform covered with scarlet cloth stood 
an old black piano, at which sat a young man with 
long, stiff, light hair, who instantly began to play, 
passing from one minor key to another. At the 
other end of the platform were two huge, straight- 
backed chairs, in which sat, like monarchs awaiting 
coronation, Sarah Winter and Jessaiah Juniper. 

The apartment was adorned with huge placards, 
on which, against an effectively gloomy back- 
ground, jagged tongues of flame stood forth in 
sharp relief, — the fiery sea of hell in which luck- 
less human bodies writhed in horrible contortions. 
These attractive and cheerful works of art were 
embellished with the following sentences, executed 
in huge scarlet letters : Where shall I go after 
death Utter annihilation” — Eternal torture” 

— My own doing,” etc. Jack noticed that the 
youth at the piano gazed steadily up from the keys 
at these edifying wall frescos with a very enthu- 
siastic expression. As Jack afterwards learned, 
he was a house-painter in whom Sarah had dis- 
covered a great genius, and who had, by her orders, 
executed these frightful decorations. Jack sat 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


39 


down on one of the yellow benches beside a little 
girl with big blue eyes and long fair hair, who was 
busied in soothing her younger brother. He had 
begun to whimper before the commencement of 
the ceremonies. 

The pianist on the platform — his name was 
Abraham Bray — suddenly struck a crashing ac- 
cord amid his wailing modulations, and in a hoarse 
voice began Beethoven^s penitential hymn. Sarah 
and J uniper joined in, each singing false, and the 
children on the benches trembled. At the close 
of the hymn the pianist, to subdue his luckless 
little audience completely, executed a funeral 
march, after which Sarah rose, and approaching 
the edge of the platform, read aloud a short ad- 
dress, evidently composed by herself, in which she 
showed to her poor little listeners by all sorts of 
harrowing illustrations the terrible consequences 
of drinking. 

A few of the frightened urchins were already 
beginning to wail softly. The sobs cut Jack to 
the quick, but the expression of Sarah’s face 
showed that she regarded them as an evidence of 
her success, for she continued with redoubled en- 
ergy her cruel explanation of the earthly conse- 
quences of the sin of intoxication. When she 
closed, Jessaiah Juniper came forward, and, in a 
very effective lecture, graphically described to the 
children the eternal damnation which, in the other 
world, must inevitably be added to the earthly 
punishment of drunkenness. His black figure 
was vividly relieved against the scarlet drapery of 


40 


A LEAFLESS SEEING, 


the platform; he clinched his fists, gnashed his 
white teeth, stamped his feet, shrieked and sang 
by turns, while his hair, as if stirred by a current 
of electricity, stood out straight around his head. 

The children thrust their little fists into their 
eyes to shut out the sight of this monster. Many 
of them stopped their ears, and the majority were 
crying bitterly. Every nerve in Jack’s body quiv- 
ered. Lifting one poor little fellow on his knee, 
he patted the embryo sinner soothingly. 

Meanwhile, Juniper paused and fixed his promi- 
nent yellow- white eyes on Jack. At the same 
moment Sarah left the platform and approached 
him. ‘‘ What are you doing ?” she said, almost 
imperiously. 

‘‘ I am a member of the Society for the Preven- 
tion of Cruelty to Animals,” he replied, apologeti- 
cally, with a faint attempt to jest, pressing the head 
of the sobbing little one he held on his knee against 
his shoulder with his big warm brown hand. 

‘‘I cannot permit this!” cried Sarah, harshly; 
“it is against our rules to comfort the children 
during the addresses. My mother could not re- 
frain from doing it, and I was obliged to request 
her to remain away from our meetings. Surely, 
you must perceive that we ought not to conceal 
the truth from children for the sake of sparing 
their nerves.” 

“ I perceive nothing except that I can no longer 
witness this torture,” cried Jack, angrily, as he 
placed the child on the floor, released the clasp of 
the little clinging fingers as gently as possible, and. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


41 


with his head held very high in the air, strode 
swiftly out of the room. 

‘‘Well, what do you think of the ‘meeting’?’’ 
asked Mrs. Winter, whom he did not find in the 
drawing-room, but out in the garden. 

“ Horrible !” Jack almost shouted, his handsome 
blue eyes flashing angrily with an expression very 
unlike their usual kindly gaze. “What is the 
object of this torture ?” 

“ Then you did not stay until the end ?” asked 
Mrs. Winter. 

“ Ho !” returned Jack, tartly. “ I was turned 
out in the middle of the African missionary’s ad- 
dress because I had ventured to comfort a little 
chap about two feet high, who was trembling with 
fear of hell.” 

“ I fared just the same,” replied his aunt, smiling ; 
“ but you ought to have waited ; the point of the 
enterprise is interesting.” 

“ What is the point of the enterprise ?” growled 
J ack. 

“ After the children have been duly affected by 
various onslaughts upon their nerves, a document 
is read aloud which binds them not to touch a 
drop of spirituous liquor all their lives. They all 
sign it of course. How could the poor frightened 
little things do otherwise ? Then they are received 
into an organization which, under the name of 
‘ The Bands of Hope,’ is expected to secure Eng- 
land’s future.” 

“And then?” murmured Jack, still dissatisfied. 

“ Why, then the children are left to me,” replied 
4 * 


42 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


Mrs. "Winter, and I am permitted, as a reward 
for their good resolutions, to give them some re- 
freshments. Consequently they go home with 
tolerably bright eyes.’’ The old lady’s smile was 
not free from a shade of sadness ; then wiping her 
beautiful blue Irish eyes, — Jack’s were just like 
them, — she added: ‘‘Drunkenness is certainly a 
terrible vice and evil in our country, but I should 
be glad if Sarah would try to contend against it 
by less absurd and commonplace means. Heigh- 
ho ! Well, let us think of pleasanter subjects. I’ll 
have the children’s tea served in the garden to-day. 
Won’t you help me amuse them a little ?” 

“Unfortunately, I can’t stay so long,” Jack 
answered, somewhat absently. “ Hasn’t Mary re- 
turned yet ?” he added, in a half-irritated tone. 

“Ho, hut I am expecting her every minute,” 
said Mrs. Winter ; “ she was to be at home at five.” 

“ I suppose she is just seeking, as you say, her 
object in life !” Jack exclaimed. “In what direc- 
tion, if one may ask ?” 

“Oh, she changes, usually following the lead of 
some shrewder and more earnest friend. At pres- 
ent she is struggling with Lady Byng for the cause 
of Woman’s Sufirage in England. She is very 
pretty and ladylike ; perhaps sets a little too much 
value on external superiority.” 

“ Ah, then she is probably seeking her life-pur- 
pose in the direction of external distinction ?” said 
Jack, derisively. 

The old lady laid her hand, which, though any- 
thing but aristocratic in its contours, was soft and 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


43 


warm, upon his arm, and answered, coaxingly, 
Don’t abuse my girls to me.” 

‘‘ Why are they not a little more like you !” 
groaned Jack, giving the coarse gravel on the 
garden path so violent a kick that a whole shower 
of tiny black pebbles flew into the air. You are 
not satisfied with them yourself.” 

“ That isn’t the right word. I haven’t the least 
cause to he dissatisfied. I pity the poor things; 
that’s all,” said Mrs. Winter. 

But why do you allow them to commit these 
follies ?” retorted Jack, hotly. 

“ Because without them they would die of en- 
nui,” Mrs. Winter explained. ‘‘My dear Jack, 
in our circle, — the circle of the upper middle class, 
— the heart of the nation, as the newspapers call 
it, life in England is so wearisome that it needs 
my Irish blood to bear it without some mono- 
mania, a so-called ‘ object in life.’ Every woman 
in the English middle class has an aim : one labors 
against drunkenness, another in behalf of improved 
sanitary arrangements in hospitals, or the better- 
ment of canalization in the suburbs of London, 
a third delivers lectures on the modern idea of 
Christianity, and shows you that revelation was 
unnecessary to prove the existence of Deity, and 
still another toils for the abolition of the corset 
and the introduction of the Greek peplum for 
woman’s daily wear. Yes, I assure you the whole 
circle of the English middle classes seems to me 
like a huge circus, where every woman rides her 
own hobby, and oh, dear, with what zeal and 


44 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


earnestness ! The men have less time for such 
follies : they have something to do ; hut ho\V else 
can the women employ their leisure ? There is no 
work for them in their homes, they are tended 
and pampered like princesses, — everything is theirs 
except healthful pastime.’’ 

But I don’t understand why you have permitted 
them to vegetate in this circle?” Jack vehemently 
exclaimed, snapping little twigs from the bushes 
which shaded the path, down which he was walk- 
ing with his aunt. 

“ What was I to do ? It happened so,” said the 
old lady, carelessly. ‘‘ Your mother was a charm- 
ing woman, and we were very fond of each other ; 
but she really did not know what to do with me 
except when she was ill. And when she died all 
intercourse between us and your father gradually 
ceased. Your father was a terribly ambitious man, 
who never forgave me for having once accidentally 
spoken to his wife of our mother, who, as you per- 
haps know, was a washerwoman.” 

‘‘ Yes, I know,” Jack nodded ; ‘‘ it’s the sore spot 
in Bryan’s life, too. When I want to tease him I 
always bring it up ; he’s just like his father.” 

“ My girls would be still less suited to your gay 
world than I. They both have their father’s Puri- 
tan blood in their veins.” Her eyes grew fixed and 
dreamy, as is the wont of old people who suddenly, 
instead of looking to the future, glance back into 
the past. “ Your uncle Christopher was a man of 
honor,” she said. ‘‘ I have no occasion to complain 
of him, — he was a pattern husband.” Clasping 


A LEAFLESS SPRING 


45 


her hands, she stretched both arms into vacancy. 
“ Well, I did my duty honestly ; but the ennui I en- 
dured during my married life is beyond description. 
You are the first person to whom I ever admitted 
it, and — my step-daughters are exactly like their 
father. But Mary is pretty, — you’ll he pleased with 
her. The only thing she lacks — but there she is.” 

A young girl was coming down the narrow path. 
Her figure was somewhat above the middle height, 
with a very long, rather flat waist, and hips which 
sloped somewhat too sharply; smoothly-brushed 
brown hair framed a face whose only objection- 
able feature was a mouth with slightly projecting 
teeth. She had removed her hat before leaving the 
house, and wore her hair gathered with tasteful 
simplicity into a knot at the nape of the neck and 
brushed plainly, without any fashionable crimps 
over the pure white brow ; her brown eyes gazed 
forth with a frank, clear look from beneath the deli- 
cate curves of the eyebrows ; face, bearing, dress, — 
a gray linen gown with black ribbons, — were thor- 
oughly charming and ladylike. 

“ Why, she is lovely !” Jack said to himself, 
watching her with a thrill of emotion. 

Meanwhile his glance met the young girl’s. She 
recognized him and flushed crimson, which was 
extremely becoming. 

“ She is certainly pretty, very pretty,” Jack 
thought, with increasing satisfaction, and, approach- 
ing her with a more rapid step, mentally added, 
‘‘ She is bewitching.” 


46 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


“ How do you do, Mary he cried, in his win- 
ning, cordial tones, holding out his hand. But the 
blush had instantly faded and she was again pale 
and formal. Barely placing the tips of her fingers 
in his outstretched hand, she answered, in a low, 
monotonous voice, wholly devoid of modulation, — 
Oh, thank you, I am very well ; and how are 

you 

The voice alone was sufficient to hurl J ack from 
his heaven ; it was like a person softly yet sharply 
striking the same note constantly on a piano. Ho, 
she was neither bewitching nor charming: she was 
simply an English girl cut out precisely according 
to the prescribed pattern. 

“Well, did you have any success at your meet- 
ing ?” he asked, after a pause ; it suddenly seemed 
very difficult to talk with his cousin. 

“ Oh, there is no question of success yet,’’ she 
replied, in the same monotonous staccato. “We 
cannot expect any immediate result, hut we must 
do our duty.” 

“ H’m ! And do you consider it your duty to 
lecture on the subject of woman’s suffrage?” mut- 
tered Jack. 

“ I have made it the purpose of my life to help 
my enslaved sex to secure liberty,” replied Mary, 
but the heroic words sounded as tame and listless 
as if she had made a remark about the state of the 
weather. 

“ Couldn’t you devote yourself to some object 
nearer home ?” asked Jack Ferrars, not without a 
shade of sarcasm. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


47 


“ What do you mean ?” replied Mary, somewhat 
uneasily, raising her brown eyes hastily to his, and 
then instantly fixing them on the ground again. 

Why, making yourself useful in your own 
house and your relatives happy !” Jack exclaimed, 
angrily. 

‘‘ I don’t neglect my domestic duties,” Mary hur- 
riedly answered. Her articulation had become a 
shade quicker, hut she lapsed into her former tone 
as she added, ‘‘I take the whole charge of the 
housekeeping, and settle the accounts with the cook 
every evening.” 

‘‘Yes, she is a very exact arithmetician,” said 
Mrs. Winter, encouragingly ; she had hitherto lis- 
tened silently to the lagging conversation between 
the two young people, and she kindly patted her 
daughter’s long, thin arm as she spoke. Mary re- 
ceived the caress with a slight twitch, like a person 
who is both shy and ticklish. The movement did 
not escape Jack’s notice. 

Noy compared with Mary, even Sarah was amus- 
ing. He instantly changed his tone, which at first 
had been somewhat questioning, as if seeking 
something more beneath the shell of her insipidity, 
and talked of superficial matters. 

“ This weeping-ash is a very beautiful tree.” 

“ Oh, yes, very fine indeed,” fell from her lips. 

“ It’s strange how early the rhododendrons blos- 
som this year.” 

“Astonishing, isn’t it ” 

At this moment a harsh, rhythmical noise, which 
was perhaps intended to represent a triumphal 


48 


A LEAFLESS SPEING. 


march, echoed through the garden, announcing 
that the “ cruelty to animals’’ was over. 

The lawn suddenly filled with tearful children. 
Mrs. Winter expressed a hope that Jack would 
help her cheer the little band, but he repeated that 
he could not stay longer. In truth, there was no 
cause to prolong his visit. The matter was ended 
for him. 

What more could he do here ? 

He had already taken leave of his cousins, and 
now returned with his aunt to the drawing-room, 
where he had had his tea with her. 

The old lady fixed an earnest, searching gaze 
upon him. ‘‘ What really did induce you to seek 
us again ?” she asked. 

Jack’s ears burned as though some one had 
lashed his head with stinging nettles. 

‘‘I came to hid you farewell,” he muttered, 
hurriedly. 

“Farewell? Are you going to India to hunt 
tigers, or to the Cordilleras to pursue some other 
game ?” 

“ Scarcely so far, aunt, and not for amusement,” 
Jack answered, gloomily; “I am merely obliged 
to leave England because it is too expensive to live 
here. I am ruined.” 

“ Ruined !” cried the terrified old lady. 

“Yes!” Jack smiled faintly, in the way with 
which every man who has any pretensions to good- 
breeding seeks to cloak his suffering. “ My brother 
communicated the fact to me this morning. By 
careful investment of the property still left me I 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 49 

shall have an annual income of three hundred 
pounds.^’ 

‘‘ Oh, my poor boy ! what are you to do cried 
Mrs. Winter, deeply troubled. 

“Hush, hush. Aunt Jane, don’t pity me; it 
was all my own fault,” answered Jack, much 
moved. 

“ As if that were any reason for not pitying any 
one !” cried Mrs. Winter, her blue Irish eyes glit- 
tering with tears. “But what do you mean to do 
now, you spoiled, helpless mortal ?” 

“ Bryan wished me to take orders, as he can 
then promise me a living. I myself ” 

“ Well, what have you yourself planned ?” 

Jack’s ears were still burning; he made no an- 
swer save a shrug of the shoulders. After a brief, 
awkward pause, he glanced around as though he 
had forgotten something. 

“ What is it ?” asked Mrs. Winter. 

“ The sketch I made of you ; I should like to 
keep it for a remembrance,” replied Jack. 

The old lady found the sheet ; but before giving 
it to her nephew, she remarked, “ Strange, how 
excellent the likeness is ! You have a great deal 
of talent. Jack.” 

“ Do you think so ?” he answered, thoughtfully ; 
then added : “ How, just this very moment, the 
idea entered my mind, perhaps if I cultivated 
this talent I might earn something by it.” 

“I don’t doubt that,” Mrs. Winter said, ear- 
nestly, “ if you have the necessary perseverance.” 

“ The perseverance will come of its own accord 
c d 6 


50 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


from my narrow purse,” said Jack, in a jesting 
tone. 

“ H’m ! It is worth considering,” murmured 
Mrs. Winter. “ Where would you study ?” 

“Where can art he studied?” asked Jack. 
“ Only in Paris.” 

“ H’m !” Again Aunt Jane’s eyes grew fixed. 
She was gazing far hack into the past, farther than 
when she had spoken to Jack of her married life. 
“ When would you start ?” 

“ Within a few days. As soon as I have settled 
my troublesome business affairs.” 

“ Well, — if you carry out the plan, — if you really 
do go to Paris to become an artist, let me know 
before your departure. I should like to give you a 
letter of introduction to an old friend. True, since 
I last saw him, he has become a very famous man, 
but I think he will remember me. Farewell, my 
boy. God bless you. Your visit has afforded me 
great pleasure.” 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


51 


n. 

Jack entered the hansom which — economy was 
not yet familiar to him — he had kept waiting 
during his call. 

A sweet fragrance floated over the red brick 
walls of the gardens. The recollection of his 
pretty, stylish, yet infinitely tiresome cousin 
haunted him with tenacious persistency. What 
did she lack? — what was it? Good heavens, it 
was life ! 

Suddenly a legion of equally attractive, well- 
bred, tiresome creatures appeared before his men- 
tal vision, all alike devoid of animation. 

‘‘ It is undeniably a national fault,’^ Jack said to 
himself, and while pondering over the matter it 
seemed to him that his countrymen were ashamed 
of genuine life, — their movements, their way of 
speaking, their opinions, everything was in a cer- 
tain degree mechanical. They had a national 
physiognomy, but no individuality. In their fear 
that life might make some objectionable demand 
upon them they so repressed and denied it that 
they actually appeared to pride themselves upon 
being automata, set in motion by a certain univer- 
sal agreement as to manners and customs, instead 
of human creatures. When these blinded mortals 
at last succeeded in wholly extirpating all tokens 


52 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


of vivacity, they triumphed in the consciousness 
of their magnificent perfection, and looked down 
upon all less inanimate persons with insolent scorn. 

Amid this union of the saints vivacity was con- 
sidered — sin. The comical part of it was that this 
maltreated vivacity fettered by cant — the name 
of the great, decorous lie — constantly asserted its 
rights, and in what a vehement fashion ! 

True, he had never noticed this national evil so 
plainly as to-day. He asked himself whether mat- 
ters were very difierent in the circles where he had 
formerly moved, in the world of gayety. But the 
answer was not quite so prompt. A certain stiff 
lifelessness characterized his countrymen, even in 
“society,” notwithstanding their more easy and 
affable manners. 

Genuine vivacity was displayed — especially by 
his GOMnivjwomen — only when their blood was 
stirred by some exciting incident of sport, or by 
some momentarily strong interest awakened by it. 

Sport was the only thing which roused English- 
women, and, moreover, the great safety-valve which 
saved them from the ugly sins by which, even in 
the best society, the natural gayety repressed by 
cant only too frequently found an outlet. 

Sport ! sport ! ay, under the infiuence of sport 
Englishwomen become gay, charming, unaffected. 
Jack involuntarily uttered a sigh of relief at the 
thought of the effect it produced, and at the same 
time cast a glance around him. The neighborhood 
suddenly seemed strangely familiar. He thrust 
his head out from under the roof of his cab; 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


63 


a couple of drags drawn by four horses rolled past 
him and he recognized several intimate friends, 
who waved their hands gayly. “ Where am I ?” he 
said to himself. “ Surely this must be somewhere 
near Hurlingham.’’ 

On the way to Putney he had been so absorbed 
in the evil designs which had brought him thus 
ex ahrupto to his shamefully-neglected relatives, 
that he had paid no heed to his surroundings, 
i^ow his lips curled in a humorous smile. He had 
had no idea that in London, or at least in its imme- 
diate neighborhood, the world of boredom lay so 
near the world of amusement. 

And how much pleasure Hurlingham offered ! 
Jack could not restrain a little sigh of regret as he 
thought of the magnificent park where every Sat- 
urday, during the season, the polo matches were 
played. How often he had taken part in them ! He 
was, of course, a member of the Hurlingham Club. 
A sudden fancy took possession of him to have one 
more glimpse of this paradise of sport, which had 
now become to him indeed a Paradise Lost. 

He ordered the cabman to drive to Hurlingham. 

As hired conveyances, with the exception of 
coaches, are not admitted to these Elysian Fields 
of the utmost aristocratic exclusiveness, the hansom 
was obliged to stop at the entrance. Jack then 
remembered that he did not have his ticket of ad- 
mission with him, but the one-armed porter made 
no difficulty on that score. He was well known in 
Hurlingham. 

People had not yet begun to leave. The equi- 
6 * 


64 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


pages which, had conveyed the fashionable world 
hither still stood side by side, a veritable rampart 
of carriages. Drags, elegant two-seated victorias, 
clumsy old-fashioned coaches, with coachmen in 
wigs on the box, and powdered footmen, with long 
gilt canes, standing on a footboard behind. 

Jack knew all the most elegant of these equi- 
pages. Silent and amused with that sense of humor 
springing from the feeling of decorum which will 
not suffer men to acknowledge their depression, 
even to themselves. Jack pondered over the muta- 
bility of everything earthly while strolling along 
the exquisitely-kept paths winding between broad 
stretches of velvety turf, across which, lightly 
stirred by the breath of the late spring, the pic- 
turesque, flickering shadows of the ancient ashes 
and elms grew longer and longer. Now and then 
a brake or a mail-coach rolled by him at the islow 
pace of a vehicle waiting for its owners. 

He went to the place where the polo matches 
were held. A number of the most beautiful 
women, as well as the most elegant old and young 
dudes of London, surrounded the enclosure, behind 
which eight young men in white flannel suits and 
yellow kid gaiters, their arms bared above the elbow, 
were dashing hither and thither on broad-shoul- 
dered white ponies over the emerald sward in pur- 
suit of a white ball, which both sides tried to se- 
cure by means of long-handled sticks resembling 
croquet-mallets. The ball flew here and there, the 
spectators breathlessly watching its movements and 
those of the players. 


A leafless spring. 


55 


A band of genuine Hungarian musicians was 
playing in lulling rhythm one of Strauss’s waltzes, 
a caressing accompaniment to the whispered duets 
of love filling the soft spring air. 

Old ladies sat in gay little tents, real English old 
ladies, extremely stout, attired in very youthful cos- 
tumes, with faces whose outlines were beautiful in 
form, but unfortunately marred by blotched com- 
plexions. They laughingly listened to compliment- 
ary speeches from white-haired admirers, which 
recalled long-past triumphs as they protested for 
the hundredth time that the women of the present 
day were by no means so beautiful as those who 
had made the rain and sunshine of the social sky 
of London thirty or forty years ago. 

Jack, catching these remarks, was asking him- 
self in the presence of the exquisite array of femi- 
nine loveliness on which his eyes rested whether 
this was possible. 

A feeling of melancholy pleasure stole over him. 
He enjoyed the music, enjoyed the soft air fragrant 
with the scent of the green leafage and damp turf, 
the sight of the pretty young women and the aris- 
tocratic old ones, the aroma of the quintessence of 
aristocracy in which a small contingent of success- 
ful place-hunters formed an amusing rather than 
an annoying element. 

He was recognized. Beautiful eyes flashed a 
friendly welcorhe; brown hands, whose almond- 
shaped nails gleamed like opals, were extended by 
the men. But Jack did not linger long, and, turn- 
ing away again, strolled alone through the park. 


56 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


The mournful melody sung by the spring breeze 
sweeping over the tops of the ancient ash-trees 
blended with the distant music of the band, the 
shadows stretching across the greensward grew 
paler and paler, — suddenly they vanished. 

It was beginning to rain, — it always begins to 
rain in London when one least expects it. First 
only a drop fell here and there, something like a 
louder rustle of the leaves ; then they came faster, 
a rattling shower which made Jack seek refuge in 
the casino, the tiny Hurlingham casino. His way 
led him past the conservatory, where a number of 
ladies had found shelter. He saw them gazing out 
through the sloping glass roof over a palisade of 
the gayest calceolarias, and thought he had never 
beheld any sight more beautiful. 

How tall and slender, how well formed, though 
usually a little flat-waisted, these young creatures 
were ! What superb complexions, what healthful 
frankness of expression, and what bewitching little 
noses and short, exquisitely-moulded upper lips ! 
They were Englishwomen, too. 

Anger overwhelmed him, true proletarian wrath 
that the gulf between the world of English gayety 
was so deep and the wall between Putney and 
Hurlingham so high. It was unjust, — in no nation 
was the middle class so scantily, the aristocracy so 
richly, endowed as in England. There the aris- 
tocracy has everything, beauty, grace, intellect, and 
more — the charm of perfect naturalness. 

After Jack had raged sufficiently concerning 
this unjust distribution of earthly blessings, he 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


57 


calmed himself with the thought that nevertheless 
there was in reality no society less exclusive than 
the English, that every one can obtain admittance 
to it if he has money or power to gain access, and 
whether he is comfortable or not in it depends 
wholly upon himself. 

Then he wondered if any picture could he 
painted like the array of lovely faces he had seen 
behind the calceolarias through the rain-blurred 
glass panes, — whether Nittis could have executed 
such a thing. How odd and charming it was ! 

Almost every one in the group wore a capote 
bonnet, but in all other respects the attire of his 
countrywomen differed most widely. Heavy dark 
red or violet dresses were relieved against white 
muslin ones, black lace gowns alternated with gay 
China silks, natty cloth costumes, and white flan- 
nel lawn-tennis suits, or creations of Worth, Hed- 
fern, and Elise, becoming even in the most eccentric 
variations from the fashion. 

At last Jack succeeded in turning his eyes away 
from the pretty medley of colors, entered the tea- 
room of the casino and looked for a newspaper, 
but found nothing except the Field, a sporting 
paper, about two dozen copies of which were lying 
about. The apartment was almost empty. The 
only occupants were a young man and some female 
relatives from the country, to whom he was evi- 
dently doing the honors of Hurlingham. They 
were just in the act of leaving the room, and Jack 
heard him say as they passed out, — 

‘‘Awfully jolly, isn’t it? Well, we might have 


58 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


some more books about the place.’’ He accom- 
panied the words, however, with a smile of satis- 
faction, which distinctly expressed how sincere 
would be his regret if the aristocratic ignorance 
of Hurlingham should destroy its chk by descend- 
ing to the establishment of a library. 

Jack was now left to his own thoughts, which 
were of no pleasant character. Suddenly a tall, 
slender woman, with the most charming little face 
framed in glittering golden hair ever shaded by 
an Elise capote, rushed through the door, which 
had been left open. 

This capote really consisted merely of a wreath 
of pale lilac and yellow orchids, with which she 
wore a white dress, already quite wet, and a sable 
collar, which she was clinching convulsively with 
both hands around her neck. 

“ Why, Jack ! is it you ?” she called. The young 
man recognized Lady Clara, his brother’s wife. 

She was almost out of breath, the little curls on 
her forehead were a trifle disarranged, but her 
whole appearance was thoroughly aristocratic and 
full of charm. Well dressed, with instinctive re- 
finement but not too great care, a little self-assert- 
ive, but so naively, with such good reason, that 
people gave way to her aplomb, she was one of the 
most fascinating representatives of a very fasci- 
nating class of people. 

“Jack, you here! I saw you just a moment 
watching the polo, then you vanished. I have 
been running after you through the whole place, 
but couldn’t find you anywhere. Charley Hearing 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


59 


is looking for you, too. IVe been caught in the 
rain ; hut I’m delighted to have found you at last. 
Oh, do order me a cup of tea !” 

‘‘ Isn’t it rather late ?” asked Jack. 

‘‘ What does the time matter ?” replied his sister- 
in-law. “ I should like to talk with you a little 
while. If it were not so late the room would he 
full of people.” 

Within a few minutes Jack was sitting opposite 
to his sister-in-law at a very pretty low table watch- 
ing her sip her tea ; she did not touch the brown 
Hurlingham cakes the waiter brought with it. She 
was only thirsty, not hungry. 

Jack gazed at her with much pleasure. ‘‘An 
Englishwoman, too,” he thought. “ What a pity 
that Mary doesn’t resemble her more !” Again a 
wave of proletarian wrath swept over him that 
these people should have everything, not only their 
social position and physical beauty, but their spark- 
ling energy and bewitching naturalness, the inso- 
lent naturalness of persons thoroughly content with 
what God and life have made them, and who there- 
fore consider it utterly superfluous to feign. 

Affectation always has its root in a feeling of 
insecurity. It is the rouge people put on because 
their own complexions do not seem beautiful 
enough. 

“ I know all !” she exclaimed, looking at him 
over the edge of her teacup, — “ all ; Bryan has told 
me everything.” 

“ Why, what do you know ?” asked J ack, lapsing 
into a jesting tone. 


60 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


“ That you are ruined, that you haven’t a far- 
thing. You silly hoy !” 

Oh, ho !” retorted Jack, ‘‘you have been mis- 
informed. I still have a yearly income of three 
hundred pounds, besides the building-lots, which 
some day ” 

“ Will yield a million,” interrupted Lady Clara, 
dryly. “We know all about that. Building-lots 
or family lawsuits, both serve to quiet the scruples 
of conscience when one is inclined to live beyond 
one’s means. I know what I am talking about. 
If my family had not spent more than they could 
afford, on expectations from the sale of building- 
lots, I should not be your sister-in-law. I really 
ought not to have said that, — it slipped out. Be- 
sides, — ^h’m ! — ^your brother can be perfectly satis- 
fied, and his children will never have reason to be 
ashamed of their mother. Bryan needn’t regret 
it. The only person who has any cause for repent- 
ance is I. Ah!” — she leaned back in her low 
chair, rubbing her eyes with her dainty little hands, 
— “ the malice of fate ! Two years after my mar- 
riage the value of the building-lots was realized, — 
an immense sum ! To-day I should be one of the 
best matches in the kingdom. Well, never mind, 
I didn’t come here to lament my own misfortunes, 
but to console you. What do you really intend to 
do now?” 

“I — Clara — I have a plan of my own. When 
my business here is settled I’ll go to Paris, live 
economically, and study art,” Jack answered. 

“ Indeed 1” Lady Clara leaned her arm on the 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


61 


low tea-table wbicb stood before her and surveyed 
Jack enthusiastically from head to foot. That’s 
a splendid idea, — you are going to be an artist !” 

Jack nodded, then added, smiling, ‘‘ Unless Bryan 
thinks I shall commit a crime against the respect- 
ability of the Ferrars family.” 

‘‘ Ah, let the Ferrars respectability take care of 
itself! An artist, — that’s splendid. You have so 
much talent ! You know I have had the portraits 
of my two children which you sketched for me 
last year in red crayon framed and hung in my 
bedroom. An artist, — that’s splendid. You can 
make immense sums of money. They say that Sir 
John Millais earns ten thousand pounds a year.” 

Like the true woman she was. Lady Clara saw 
only the shining goal, without giving a thonght 
to the length of the road. The problem of her 
brother-in-law’s future was solved. “I am glad 
that you have thought of something sensible,” she 
said. Bryan was saying that you ought to marry 
Mary Winter. Why should you marry Mary Win- 
ter? Yonsense! Of course you are coming to 
dine with us to-morrow ?” 

“Bryan withdrew the invitation; he told me 
that you had invited several guests, and that your 
dining-room was very small,” replied Jack, with 
the utmost seriousness. 

“ Yes, he said something of the kind to me,” 
returned Lady Clara. “ I explained to him that 
unless he invited you there would be no dinner.” 

“ Why, Clara!” 

“ The comical part of it is that he is really fond 


62 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


of you, only, unfortunately, he values two other 
things still more : his money and the respectability 
of the Ferrars family. He’ll be very glad to see you. 
Come whenever you can ; we want to enjoy your 
society a little before you leave London. And one 
thing more. Jack : Bryan said you meant to sell 
your art-treasures, and asked a thousand pounds 
for your ‘ Hymphs’ by Corot. I know the picture 
is worth more, but if you’ll let me have it at that 
price ” 

Jack crimsoned to his forehead. 

‘‘ Oh, you foolish hoy !” Lady Clara laughed, 
pleasantly. “ This is business, — mere business.” 

Just at that moment a very fair young man put 
his head in at the door, — Sir Charles Bearing. 

“Awfully sorry,” he cried, “but — why, there 
you are. Jack. — I was just going to tell you that I 
couldn’t find the rascal anywhere. Lady Clara.” 

“At least it has given you some exercise,” cried 
Lady Clara, rising. “ It is growing late, very late ; 
we must go.” 

They left the casino and went into the park. 
It was almost empty, only now and then a four-in- 
hand drag dashed past them towards the entrance. 

Lady Clara and J ack returned to London in Sir 
Charles Bearing’s drag. 

There were other ladies in the party ; the hum 
of gay voices surrounded Jack. Through the 
misty twilight now gathering the drenched foliage 
of the ancient ash-trees of Hurlingham glimmered 
phantom-like ; the leaves sang and rustled. 

Jack was very silent: he was refiecting. This 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


63 


was England, too ! But what a small part of Eng- 
land ! And on looking very, very closely, even 
here there were traces of cant, — cant, the gigantic 
lie of decorum, the cold fog repressing all vivacity, 
which broods heavily, oppressively, over the whole 
British nation. 

A fortnight after, on the eve of his departure. 
Jack sent Corot’s “ ISTymphs” to Lady Clara as a 
farewell gift. The next morning, as he was enter- 
ing the first-class carriage which was to convey him 
to Dover, his sister-in-law came towards him, lead- 
ing a rosy, fair-haired child by each hand. ‘‘We 
have come to hid Uncle Jack good-hy and wish 
him good luck,” said Lady Clara. The young man, 
deeply moved, kissed them all warmly, and took 
with him on his journey the impression of pure, 
tender, loving hearts. “ An Englishwoman, too !” 
he murmured, as the train bore him away, and he 
remembered the farewell addressed by Lord Byron 
to Miss Mercer through his friend on the eve of 
his departure from home : “ Tell Miss Mercer that, 
had I been fortunate enough to marry a woman 
like her, I should not now he obliged to exile my- 
self from my country.” 

When he went on hoard the “ Invikta,” and saw 
the white clifis of old England disappear in the 
distance, he again drew a comparison between 
Lord Byron and himself. True, he would proba- 
bly never write a companion poem to “ Childe Har- 
old,” and, thank heaven, he left no Lady Byron 
behind. 


64 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


From Lady Byron his thoughts roved unhidden 
to Mary Winter. The way was long, and he him- 
self laughed at the direction they took. “Poor 
little Mary !” he murmured, “ she certainly bore 
no resemblance to Lady Byron, — no, h’m ! — no, 
and yet — there was a shade of kinship between 
them ; and Mary and her sister Sarah blended 
into one person would give as perfect a second 
Lady Byron as one could desire, or rather could 
not desire, — stiff, exemplary, blameless, pitiless, 
ambitious, arrogant, pursuing the husband she 
loved so passionately to his very grave with repul- 
sive slanders. 

“ Poor little Mary !” he murmured again, recall- 
ing her insipid insignificance. “ H’m ! When I 
think of marrying either of my cousins! Brr! 
I would rather caress a hedgehog than Sarah ; and 
as to Mary, I would rather embrace — what? — a 
frog 


The waves began to dash more violently against 
the wooden sides of the ship, — a slight feeling of 
discomfort stole over the young man. To con- 
quer it, he ordered a glass of brandy and soda. 

It was still broad daylight when Jack reached 
Paris, and the train which had conveyed him from 
Calais to the capital stopped with a shrill whistle 
in the Gare du Hord. A feeling of light-hearted 
cheerfulness had taken possession of him. While 
rushing through the gray-green fiat country stretch- 
ing far away till it merged into the golden mists 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


65 


on the horizon, he had felt as if a heavy, oppres- 
sive burden were being gradually lifted from his 
shoulders. 

The ruined idler felt happier than he had for 
many a day as he sprang out upon the asphalt of 
the Gare du Kord, and instinctively glanced around 
for his valet. Clerks !” he called, somewhat vexed 
that the man did not instantly appear. Then he 
smiled, remembering that Clerks had been left be- 
hind with various other luxuries belonging to the 
extravagant life, wholly free from material cares, 
which he had led in England. A comical sense of 
helplessness overwhelmed him. Then a man in a 
white blouse and a cap with a square projecting 
brim rushed up, and touching it, said, Milor’ !” 

ITodding pleasantly to him. Jack pointed to his 
little collection of hand-luggage, and, followed by 
the porter, went to the waiting-room. The huge, 
lofty apartment, amid whose dirty-gray monotony 
of color the various fruit- and book-stalls intro- 
duced a motley, cheerful alternation of gay tints, 
wore a homelike air. Several Frenchwomen, with 
crimped white caps and smooth hair, were sitting 
in the window-niches as usual, chatting together 
with eager gesticulations, and a blind beggar was 
blowing the ‘‘ Marseillaise” on a French horn. It 
was really terribly trying to the nerves, but Jack 
thought it charming. Every pulse vibrated with 
pleasure, yet his face was as aristocratically devoid 
of expression as his countrymen could have desired. 

The porter put the luggage in an open carriage, 
which Jack entered. After giving the man a fee, 


66 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


which seemed somewhat to surprise him, he called 
to the driver the name of the hotel where he usually 
went, — Hotel Castiglione, Hue Castiglione.” 

Hot until the porter asked, “ Has Milor’ no 
trunk did he remember that his business was 
not wholly settled. 

After searching a long time for his luggage- 
ticket, which he was not in the habit of keeping, 
and finally discovering it in his vest-pocket, he 
handed it to the Frenchman, who was secretly 
smiling, and when the latter asked, “ Will Milor’ 
wait for the trunks?’’ Jack, amazed by the sugges- 
tion, cried, “Bring them to the hotel, and you, 
coachman, drive on.” 

In this practical fashion Jack began the new life 
which henceforth was to cost him only three hun- 
dred pounds per annum. Leaning comfortably 
back in his shabby vehicle, he gazed at his sur- 
roundings. Was this the same world where, 
scarcely eight hours ago, he had been so depressed 
and bored ? Yes, it must be the same, or, at any 
rate, a little corner of it, — but a corner in which a 
favorable climate and the gay, sanguine tempera- 
ment of its inhabitants had preserved at least a 
portion of that cheerfulness which his poor Aunt 
Jane had praised as the incense which must be 
most pleasing to God. How everything about 
J ack throbbed with life ! — the pulse of the uni- 
verse, whose slightest independent, unconventional 
manifestation was considered a sin by one-tenth of 
the dwellers in his native land. He looked at the 
tall houses, girdled by iron balconies, with their 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


67 


huge windows placed so close together that they 
made the walls seem almost transparent ; the nu- 
merous large windows gave the dwellings an air of 
open-heartedness ; green vines floated over the iron 
balconies ; life and cheerfulness reigned every- 
where. Even in the mansard windows high aloft 
flowers were blooming, — scarlet geraniums and 
carnations. 

i^’umerous families of worthy citizens sat before 
the doors of the cafts, enjoying their cheap viands, 
which were sometimes a little too obtrusively redo- 
lent of hot fat and onions. Jack smiled at their 
abrupt, angular movements, and could not help 
confessing that his own countrymen, with whom 
he choose to consider himself for the time upon 
a war-footing, even down to the lowest classes, 
looked far more aristocratic than these Parisian 
bourgeois ; yet these bourgeois, unaflectedly comi- 
cal as they were, seemed to enjoy life, and when 
could he say that of his countrymen ? 

The carriage stopped before the hotel with a 
somewhat careless jerk. The horse slipped, hut 
instantly recovered his footing and spread his stiff 
forelegs somewhat amazingly wide apart. An odor 
of scorched asphalt blended with the scent of the 
fresh green leaves. The foliage of the Tuileries 
gardens appeared in the distance far down the Rue 
de Castiglione. On the right and left of the hotel 
were glittering show-windows, filled with all sorts 
of charming trifles, principally knick-knacks and all 
kinds of old-fashioned hric-d-brac, which might 
tempt idle loungers of taste. Among the various 


68 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


articles, old buckles, buttons of imitation gems, 
and mock enamel. Jack suddenly discovered a little 
enamelled snuff-box, representing a shepherd in a 
blue-green landscape, which his practised eye in- 
stantly recognized as a masterpiece, and which, 
before entering the hotel, he purchased at a very 
low price (at least he thought it so). 

Then he went into the hotel, whose door stood 
hospitably open, where the landlord instantly came 
forward to inform him that the room for which 
“ Monsieur” had telegraphed was ready. He was 
known here, so he was spared the title of “ My 
Lord,” which his bearing and the modelling of 
his countenance invariably called forth from all 
Frenchmen of the lower class. 

“Would Monsieur dine at once or go directly to 
his room to brush up a little ?” 

Jack preferred to “ brush up” first, and followed 
the landlord, who bustled before him, to a large, 
airy apartment. 

“ Monsieur did not bring his valet ?” 

“Ho.” 

“ Then Til send some one up to unpack the 
trunks and help Monsieur, as soon as they come,” 
said the landlord, retreating with a courteous bow. 

Jack wanted to dispense with assistance, and set 
to work manfully. He unbuckled all his bags, 
pulled out their whole contents, could find nothing, 
and was standing helplessly in the midst of a chaos 
of articles impatiently tossed together, when the 
waiter entered and took pity on his clumsiness. 
For Jack was clumsy, — he perceived it for the first 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


69 


time, and with vexation, for it was a very incon- 
venient quality in the mode of life he intended to 
pursue. He had always considered himself practi- 
cal and inured to hardships, and so he was, so far 
as sporting matters were concerned. When occa- 
sion required, he could not only saddle and bridle 
a horse, hut feed and care for it like a professional 
groom ; he was tireless in hunting, and feared 
neither bad weather nor any other discomfort. 
But in ordinary life he was as helpless and pam- 
pered as a child two years old or a fashionable 
young lady. 

After he had bathed and dressed he left the 
waiter to set his room in order, and feeling really 
hungry, went down to the dinner awaiting him in 
the dining-hall. This little dinner had been se- 
lected with special reference to Jack’s tastes, which 
had long been well known in the Hotel Castiglione, 
and the table was set with the appetizing clean- 
liness and care understood by Frenchmen alone. 
Jack told himself that it was long since he had 
been so well served or felt so comfortable, yet a 
feeling slowly stole over him to which at first he 
could have given no name. It was not homesick- 
ness, but something quite difierent, — a longing for 
warm, human sympathy, a sense of desertion, of 
loneliness ; and when a short time later he sipped 
his cofiee in the little court-yard, with its exotic 
plants rustling softly in their pots, he was delighted 
when the big black poodle belonging to the hotel, 
an old acquaintance, laid its shaggy head on his 
knee and licked his hand. 


70 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


After dinner he loitered a little while under the 
arcades which run along the Eue Castiglione, and 
then wandered out into the Place de la Concorde. 
The water plashed monotonously in the black 
basin. At Jack’s left hand white statues stood 
forth in spectral relief against the dark back- 
ground of the chestnut-trees in the garden of the 
Tuileries, at his right stretched the sea of leafage 
of the Champs Elysees, twinkling with all sorts of 
scintillations, ordinary rows of street lamps and 
glowing arabesques of light on the fa9ades of the 
great cafes. He went to the bank of the Seine. 
A few steamboats, huge, indistinct, shadowy, 
lighted only by the rays of one or two red lan- 
terns, lay on the water, whose dark, restless sur- 
face caught and bore away the reflection of the 
stars, while beyond rose the Paris of the Hive 
Gauche, also dark, majestic, an endless wall of 
blackness illumined here and there with flashes of 
light. The Seine rippled at his feet, and in the 
distance echoed the hoarse murmur of the capital, 
while dominating all, borne along by the airiest 
rhythm, a terribly mournful waltz melody floated 
from one of the cafes in the Champs Elysees. A 
woman whose cheeks flamed with rouge smiled at 
him as she passed. 

He shuddered. Ho, Paris was less cheerful than 
he had thought. Yet how much of the poesy of 
life, how much of the “ sweet anguish of existence,” 
blended with this profound melancholy of the 
night ! 

A wish to retain some portion of the scene in 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


71 


order to reproduce it in his own way stirred in his 
heart, — the first restlessness of the creative impulse 
of the artist. He would fain have found words 
to describe or colors to paint it. Suddenly the 
infinity surrounding him dwindled, he saw only 
a few tall black silhouettes of trees on the bank 
of the Seine, far below in the distance, and be- 
side them the dark water refiecting the quivering 

star-light. He saw a picture 

Why had this never been painted ? Ah, if he 
could try it! Why shouldn’t he? A pungent 
odor of musk reached him, — a pretty, fair-haired 
woman, with fixed, glassy black eyes, approached, 
gazing boldly at him as she passed. He turned 
away and walked on a few steps, absorbed in 
thoughts of his future picture, when he suddenly 
paused in mingled surprise and admiration. A 
young woman, meanly clad, but with a most 
queenly bearing, was advancing directly towards 
him along the bank of the Seine. Her figure was 
tall and pliant, her face at once aristocratic 'and 
classically beautiful in its contour, long deep-blue 
eyes sparkled under heavily marked brows, narrow- 
ing to a slender line at the temples, the nose was 
short and straight, the mouth rather large, but 
exquisitely beautiful, the upper lip especially being 
most delicately chiselled. Her whole appearance, 
down to the light veil she wore knotted around 
her head, showed a blending of poverty and dis- 
tinction which rendered her solitary walk in the 
gathering darkness doubly suspicious. Besides, 
she was moving at a very slow pace. Scarcely 


72 


A LEAFLESS SPRING, 


realizing what he was doing, as if attracted by 
the magnetism of her pallid beauty, J ack spoke to 
her. She started and stopped. J ack addressed her 
a second time, — in the old formula used by Faust 
and repeated by every young man who seeks ta 
enter into conversation with a pretty woman in 
the street. She looked at him with a glance 
whose indignant despair lingered in his memory 
forever, then, without vouchsafing him even a re- 
buff*, darted past him into the throng of carriages 
in the Place de la Concorde. 

Ere he was aware of it she had disappeared. He 
stood a few moments as if rooted to the ground. 
Every pulse was throbbing. He was enraged with 
himself for having wounded a young and beautiful 
girl, whose indignant rejection of his homage had 
awakened a far deeper interest. 

He could not forget her look, — haughty, indig- 
nant, sorrowful. It seemed as if her eyes had 
said, “ What does it avail that I look as regal as 
a queen ? You venture to accost me merely because 
I wear a shabby gown and am obliged to go out 
alone; in other words, because I am poor and 
unprotected.’’ 

Every generous, kindly emotion in his nature, 
and they were many, rebelled against the thought. 

He would fain have rushed after her and be- 
sought her forgiveness on his knees. 

In fact, eccentric, impulsive Jack had fallen in 
love with the beautiful stranger at first sight. 

True, according to all indications, he was des- 
tined to love a phantom. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


73 


He gazed angrily across the Place de la Con- 
corde, where she had vanished. Paris stretched 
before him like a sea of moving shadows inter- 
mingled with vivid rays of light. To seek a 
stranger in this bewildering labyrinth, with no 
clue, was madness. He longed to escape from his 
folly, and walked down the lamp-lit, chestnut ave- 
nues to the first cafe chantant. But on the thresh- 
old of the temple of short-skirted muses he paused, 
— the dissonant gayety was distasteful, and, turn- 
ing his back on the ‘‘Horloge,’’ he went to his 
hotel. 

For the first time he found a Parisian evening 
very long, the more so as sleep, when he at last 
went to bed, was tardy in coming. 

Ay ! it was folly, no one knew that better than 
he himself, folly to seek a beautiful woman in the 
vast city of Paris, — a poor woman, too ; that is, one 
who could not be found in her box at the opera 
or her carriage in the Bois. Yet fortune often 
favors fools, he said to himself, why should it not 
smile on him ? 

He hoped that it would favor him, and therefore 
spent a week in ransacking every quarter of the 
capital, his eyes so eagerly fixed upon the distance 
that they overlooked objects close at hand, which 
sometimes brought him into uncomfortable con- 
tact with pedestrians who were quietly walking 
beside him on the narrow pavements of the inner 
city, several of whom he nearly ran over or almost 
embraced. At the end of a week he grew some- 


74 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


what weary of this fruitless pastime, laughed at 
himself, and renounced it. 

He had learned two things in the course of this 
time : first, that the artist to whom his Aunt Jane 
had given him the letter of introduction was not 
in Paris; and, secondly, that the French capital 
was not the best place of abode for a man who, 
like himself, desired to acquire the art of economy 
as speedily as possible. So he determined to spend 
the warm months at a little watering-place on the 
sea-coast, which was colonized every summer by 
Parisian artists, and where he could, at the same 
time, sketch and make acquaintances among them. 

One bright July morning he reached Cayeux, 
a wretched village, where lodgings at the most 
expensive hotel cost only six francs per day. 
Turning his hack upon it, he hired a picturesque 
fisherman’s cottage very suitable for his purpose, 
engaged a sailor to do his work and an old fish- 
wife, who had formerly been a cook, to attend to 
his kitchen. He felt extremely well satisfied with 
his surroundings, formed many acquaintanceships 
with artists and sailors, and turned his back upon 
the casino set. 

He swam like a fish, splashed about in the waves 
for hours, bought a small sail-boat, and won the 
admiration of all the seafaring folk by the skill 
with which he steered far out into the ofiing, and 
once when, in a terrible storm, a little vessel which 
was unable to run into the harbor appealed for 
help with despairing alarm-signals, amid the fury 
of the raging elements, he was one of the first to 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


75 


drag tlie life-boat from its fire-proof house and 
help to get it afloat. He even rowed with the 
sailors over the boiling surges to the aid of the 
imperilled men. Great was the praise bestowed 
upon him, so great that he was really ashamed. 

Most of the sailors who undertook the dangerous 
work of rescue were married men, and if any mis- 
chance befell them, would leave their families in 
poverty, yet they had risked their lives with the 
most simple courage as if it were a matter of course. 
Ho one wondered and no cheer greeted them as, 
dripping wet and panting with exertion, they ran 
into port with the crew over the foaming waves, 
between whose white crests yawned black abysses. 

But there was no end to the amazement of the 
people that the aristocratic “ Milor’ ’’ had soiled his 
hands and drenched his clothes to assist in the 
work. He was lauded as though he had performed 
the whole unaided. To show his good-will to the 
fisher-folk, and also divert their attention from his 
own person, he invited them all to drink punch at 
the favorite sailors’ tavern, and caroused with them 
till he was really ill. He was fond of the people, 
but his nerves often rebelled against their bombas- 
tic, liberal views of the world. 

As has been mentioned already, most of his 
acquaintances outside of the fishermen were artists ; 
he liked to talk with them, greatly enjoyed their 
delicacy of feeling and capacity for enthusiasm, 
their appreciation of humor, their childlike sim- 
plicity, the exuberance of life which sparkled in 
their eyes and echoed in every spontaneous re- 


76 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


mark, and whicli was doubly pleasing to Jack, 
who had so long been satiated with the aristocratic 
listlessness of his own countrymen. He fell into 
the habit of walking with them, watching them 
while they painted, and was soon familiar with the 
mannerism of every genius in Cayeux, smiling 
secretly at the tame strokes of one, the bold daub- 
ing of another. Scarcely a single individual ven- 
tured to look nature frankly in the face ; all paid 
homage to some artistic conventional idea, which 
they defended, whenever the conversation turned 
upon it, with actual fanaticism by theories stretch- 
ing back to spectral analysis. 

“But do cease this continual pondering, open 
your eyes, look about you, drink in the beauty 
which surrounds you, often in the most simple 
things, and then — ^why, then strive to reproduce 
whatever portion of all this loveliness has entered 
your soul through your eyes,’’ Jack would fain 
have exclaimed. Of course he repressed the im- 
pulse, first, because he was a modest fellow, who 
did not feel authorized to instruct artists, of whom 
many already bore famous names in their own 
trade ; lastly, because it was certainly to be sup- 
posed that they, at any rate, knew more about the 
matter than he did, and, moreover, he desired to 
remain on good terms with them, and therefore 
avoided irritating their sensitive natures. He had 
a very large share of tact ; that is, the instinctive 
gift of quickly perceiving and consequently sparing 
all thin-skinned, easily wounded spots in the minds 
and persons of his associates. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


77 


Though he set little value on the work of most 
of those about him, he was at first reluctant to 
show the unskilfulness of his ’prentice hand among 
these professional artists who had so thoroughly 
mastered their calling. But one day, at dawn, he 
set out fully equipped for painting, and passing 
the rose-wreathed houses which bordered the 
crooked, ill-paved main street of Cayeux, went 
into the open country, seeking to enter into some 
specially close communion with nature in the 
sacred stillness of the early morning. 

He was alone and hoped to remain so. Sud- 
denly, however, he perceived a long-limbed shadow 
at his side, — one of his artist friends had discov- 
ered him. Jack fiushed crimson; hut, instead of 
the smile of indulgent mockery he had expected, 
he saw on the young Frenchman’s face an expres- 
sion of genuine surprise which found vent in the 
exclamation, ‘‘Why, you have talent, my dear 
fellow; you are an artist to the finger-tips !” 

Jack credited at least fifty per. cent, of this 
praise to friendship; like all clear-brained men, 
he was modest, hut every pulse tingled with pleas- 
ure and his ears burned. 

The resolution to devote himself to art, at first 
formed carelessly, assumed firmer proportions with 
each passing day. He remained in Cayeux till 
twilight closed in early and the waves became dull, 
gray, and very cold, so cold that not even the 
sailors would wet their feet in them unless com- 
pelled to do so. But Jack still swam out daily in 
the dull, colorless autumn sea, far, far out, till ex- 
7 * 


78 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


perienced old sailors warned him that it was dan- 
gerous, but he always returned home, with spark- 
ling blue eyes and ruddy cheeks, precisely at the 
hour he had appointed, and set zealously to work 
again. His soul was filled with the pleasant fervor 
of a natural creative impulse; he was indeed an 
artist to the finger-tips, hut 

He left Cayeux in the middle of October, taking 
with him a big portfolio filled with studies of land- 
scapes and the warm sympathy of the ancient 
hamlet. 

Hearly five months had passed since that day. 
What had happened during this period ? Hothing 
special, indeed very little, yet all sorts of things. 

Among others, J ack had made a very big hole 
in the small remnant of his property. He really 
could not live on an income of three hundred 
pounds ; it was simply impossible. 

At first he had experienced scruples concerning 
the old extravagant habits which daily gained 
ground; hut, in spite of his sister-in-law’s jesting 
warning, he had constantly quieted them by the 
thought of the building-lots, which, sooner or 
later, must bring in millions, as well as the con- 
viction that he was destined to make immense 
sums by his art. 

This conviction had been strengthened by an 
American art-dealer, who had advanced a large 
amount of money upon the clever studies Jack 
had brought with him from Cayeux, and engaged 
everything he could do. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


79 


1^0 purchaser for the lots had appeared, the art- 
dealer’s advance payment had been spent, the 
laudatory articles which the enterprising American 
had had printed in various newspapers concerning 
the genius he had hired had long been forgotten 
by the public, but the two marine pictures ordered, 
a storm and a sunrise, each two and three-quarters 
of a yard wide by two yards high, were not yet 
painted. 

The art-dealer was growing impatient and called 
to see Jack every week. During the last one he 
had been twice. Jack already felt the greatest 
desire to throw his advance payment at his head, 
but where was he to get it ? 

What had he been doing during these past five 
months ? Directly after his return from Cayeux, 
filled with the artistic impulse of creation and the 
firmest resolve to take life seriously, his first efibrt 
had been to make a fitting framework for his profes- 
sional career. He had hired a studio and furnished 
it, according to all the rules of artistic tradition, 
with beautifully-carved antique wooden furniture. 
Oriental rugs and Japanese screens, bronzes, armor, 
and all kinds of tasteful bric-h-brac. While doing 
this he became convinced that he had been very 
unwise to sell his London furnishings. When his 
studio and living-rooms were arranged to suit his 
taste, he at first began to do a little work. But the 
concentrated interest in art which had sustained 
him in Cayeux was lacking here. It seemed as if 
his hands were weighted with lead; some fresh 
diversion constantly drew him from the easel. He 


80 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


felt the lack of preliminary study. ITow and then 
he honestly resolved to toil and moil until he could 
reach a high place in art. He sketched with several 

dozen long-haired youths in the Academy. 

It interested him, — his efforts pleased the profes- 
sors, hut something always interfered. 

At first he had made a point of keeping up his 
acquaintanceship with the artists whom he had met 
at Cayeux ; he had sought them in their modest 
homes or entertained them brilliantly in his bache- 
lor quarters. But by degrees he saw less and less 
of them, though he himself would have been 
unable to give a reason for it. A few of his former 
friends, among them a cousin who was an attache 
of the English embassy, had sought him, and — 
and — ^the atmosphere of the social circles in which 
he had been reared seemed homelike. After asso- 
ciating for a long time exclusively with artists, he 
found the gay world extremely entertaining. His 
countrymen were as amusing in Paris as they had 
often been tiresome in London. In Paris the most 
decorous among them read novels, strummed 
polkas, — ^nay, even shirked church and went to 
the theatre. The whole oppressive burden of 
English national cant had been left in England, 
with the cold, gray fog under whose influence it 
had developed. How and then some mentor raised 
his voice, but he was simply laughed down. They 
attended the theatre with charming young women, 
— the little, worthless theatres where people have 
such good times, — supped at Bignon’s, went to the 
most magnificent entertainments given by Ameri- 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


81 


can parvenus, sneered at the host, laughed when 
the butler was mistaken for the master of the 
house and the former took offence, danced at all 
the embassy balls, and appointed hours of meeting 
intimate friends at one house or another, skated 
in the Bois till the weather grew milder, rode on 
horseback between eight and ten in the morning, — 
Jack had so many wealthy friends who were al- 
ways ready to lend him their horses. Ay, the last 
five months had not been the least pleasant ones in 
Jack’s life, but — day after day the feeling of dis- 
comfort stole in, — ^the thought where all this was 
to end. If only the confounded scarcity of money 
had not pinched him so ! He rubbed his forehead. 
It was horrible and yet ridiculous that the very 
people who, like himself, most thoroughly despised 
money were least able to do without it. 

It was a March day, the mi-cartme which every 
year introduces a time of carnival into the midst 
of Lent. It had always been the custom in Paris 
to celebrate it as a day of merry-making, and the 
population strove to keep up the old habit, but 
could not quite accomplish it. The discord of the 
unreal mirth artificially conjured up for the sake 
of the date rose to his ears from the street below. 
He started up from the divan on which he had pee- 
vishly stretched his long limbs and, thrusting his 
hands into the pockets of his jacket, pressed his 
short, well-formed nose against the panes of his 
studio window. This window looked out upon 
the Boulevard Eochechouard, and opposite to him 
towered a row of not very edifying places of 
/ 


82 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


amusement, among them the notorious Boule 
Noire. 

Along the centre of this boulevard ran a row of 
stunted city trees, — Jack could not clearly distin- 
guish whether they were plane-trees or chestnuts. 
Spring was already stirring within them : most of 
the brown husks had burst open, and little pale- 
green, closely-folded leaves peeped forth. Almost 
directly in front of Jack’s window was a street-car 
station ; every five minutes one stopped ; what a 
throng of human beings rushed to it, men, women, 
children, even sickly babies who were being taken 
on a pleasure jaunt ! 

“How unlovely humanity is en masse Jack 
exclaimed, turning away, especially Parisian hu- 
manity taking holiday ! 

But though he might retreat from the window 
a hundred times, the dissonances pervading the 
street below pursued him into the farthest corner 
of his apartments. There was the continual rat- 
tling of the carriages, the “ tu-tu” of the car- 
drivers, that horrible “ tu-tu” which reminded 
him of the last act of “ Ernani,” — the wailing of a 
frightened child and the mournful sighing of the 
March wind through the branches of the trees 
where the buds were beginning to open. And, 
moreover. Jack was haunted by the unpleasant 
memories of his increasing debts, the building-lots 
which were not sold, the marine pictures which 
were not painted, and burdened by the physical 
depression with which every half-way sensible 
man pays the penalty for having thought of noth- 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


83 


ing but bis own amusement during five long 
months. 

He arrived at the conviction that life was thor- 
oughly shallow, and the only thing of genuine 
importance and real value which it contained was 
— work. 

He would really labor in earnest. The two 
marines must wait. He felt just now an actual dis- 
taste for marines ; he had seen too many of them 
recently at a public auction in the Hotel Druot ; 
six-and-twenty, all green, mingled with specks of 
white foam, which were part of the property left 
by a famous marine artist. Brr ! They all seemed 
to him to bear much more resemblance to crushed 
Heine-Claude compote than to the sea. He would 
hire a model, sketch carefully from all directions 
to sharpen his eyes again. H’m ! but he was so 
isolated, to whom could he apply for counsel ? 
Help was so near, — the artist to whom his aunt had 
given him the letter of introduction lived only a 
few paces away. True, he had never mentioned 
it, but he had always been very cordial to Jack. 
And he lived so near, scarcely five minutes’ walk. 
Jack seized his hat and went up the Boulevard 
Clichy to Armand Sylvain’s residence, where he 
climbed a narrow, slippery staircase to the third 
story, and rapped at an unpretending yellow door. 

In response to a hoarse “ Come in” he entered 
the master’s studio. It was lofty, very spacious, 
and supplied with a huge glass window which 
almost completely filled the side towards the street, 
but it was very dusty, cheerless, almost bare of 


84 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


ornament, and furnished only with half a dozen 
easels and two or three rough tables heaped with 
all sorts of artists’ materials. 

On one of these easels stood a gypsy girl bediz- 
ened with zechins, on another a gloomy picture, a 
scene from the Bulgarian insurrection, — mangled 
corpses on a dreary plain under a lowering sky 
black with storm-clouds. 

A pair of limbs, modelled from life, hung on the 
wall amid various studies, and the floor was strewn 
with splashes of paint and cigar-stumps. 

Armand Sylvain was standing before one of the 
easels, with a tall silk hat on his head and a big 
white silk mufiler wound round his large red 
throat. With these exceptions he was clad en- 
tirely in gray. He was a very large man, and 
evidently had been a very handsome one, hut one 
saw at the first glance that he had never under- 
stood how to restrain himself in the indulgence of 
any pleasure. His powerful limbs were disfigured 
by gout, his once delicate, muscular hand was flabby 
and fat, his smoothly-shaven cheeks, double chin, 
and thick red lower lip had also relaxed, the curved 
nose had coarsened, and loose white bags of flesh 
hung below the somewhat prominent black eyes. 

His teeth were still good, and the moustache 
twisted at the ends was almost pathetic with its 
inharmonious air of youth. Sylvain was alone in 
the studio when Jack entered; a pleasant dis- 
covery : the malcontent journalists who sometimes 
assembled in the artist’s studio were disagreeable 
to the young Englishman. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


85 


“ Have you really come again ?” cried the old 
artist, extending his hand, “ and it isn’t even Ash- 
^yednesday.” 

“ Why, do you suppose I come to you merely 
to atone for my sins asked Jack, gayly. 

‘‘ At any rate you come only when you are suf- 
fering the reaction from too much gayety,” mut- 
tered Sylvain ; “ hut sit down, sit down. Will you 
have a cigarette ? H’m ! I see you haven’t come 
on account of a low state of the moral barometer ; 
you have some business matter.” 

‘‘ I came to chat with you a little while about 
art,” said Jack. 

“ Indeed ! My art or yours ?” asked Sylvain, 
humorously. 

My art does not yet exist,” Jack answered. 

‘‘ Ah, that’s true, perfectly true ; and mine 
exists no longer,” he added, bursting into a loud, 
harsh laugh ; “at least people say so. Pshaw ! 
spiteful hounds! envy, sheer envy. Well, how 
can I serve you ?” 

“ Master, I want at last to toil in genuine ear- 
nest ; I want to work.’’ 

“ I said that a fit of the blues had brought you 
to me,” cried Sylvain. 

“ Must a man have the blues to remember that 
he is an artist ?” asked J ack. 

“ In the case of people like you,” Sylvain an- 
swered. “ Art is the Paradise of the outcast ; to 
men of your stamp, who have more entertaining 
objects in life, it is merely a kitchen-garden in 
which seed is sown as fast as possible to reap the 
8 


86 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


most abundant harvests. But tbe worst of it is 
that the accursed witch resents a man’s failing to 
give her the whole devotion of his heart. H’m ! 
You will never amount to anything, believe me, 
my dear fellow, notwithstanding your talent ; you 
haven’t the temperament to become absorbed in 
the great illusion. To a genuine artist art is life, 
and life itself a minor affair. To you life will 
always be the main thing. H’m ! deuce take it ! 
you are created to enjoy existence. Are you in 
any financial straits ? H’m ! Well, well ! Marry ; 
it is the only career which suits you. What have 
you been doing lately ?” 

‘‘Hot much; I have commenced a landscape 
from one of the sketches I made at Cayeux, but I 
don’t get on very well, — ^the thing bores me.” 

“ Of course it bores you !” cried Sylvain. “ You 
are a landscape-painter only from indolence, be- 
cause you imagine that in landscape-painting peo- 
ple can indulge their most reckless fancy and most 
easily dispense with definite forms. Let me tell 
you that a well-executed landscape is one of the 
most difficult tasks which an artist can undertake. 
But who thinks of that ? And merely smearing a 
canvas hap-hazard, which is what is usually termed 
landscape-painting, is an abomination to me, — 
actually loathsome. You need go no farther in 
that direction. Your talent lies elsewhere. You 
have the capacity to characterize human individ- 
uality. But first of all you must learn to draw; 
you can always manage color; it is the accursed 
form which will give you trouble. Draw, draw, 


A li:afless spring. 


87 


draw, if you want to accomplish anything ! That 
is the only advice I can give you. But — hem ! — 
you’ll amount to nothing. Marry, my dear fellow, 
marry.” 

Jack did not know whether to laugh or get 
angry. As it was hard to choose, he did both. 

“ We’ll attend to one suggestion for the present, 
and meanwhile I will ask you for more definite 
counsel. Like you, I am certain that it is very 
necessary for me to sketch, and I merely wanted 
to inquire whether you could recommend a model 
who is fit for various kinds of study ?” 

“ A model ? Take Luca Canini ; he’s a thorough 
ITeapolitan, pock-marked, ugly as night, but every- 
thing you require in regard to muscles and en- 
durance. He’ll clean your brushes, too, and attend 
to commissions, — all sorts of commissions. He’s 
one of the most unprincipled rascals in Paris ; still, 
you can always leave money before him, but take 
care of your letters.” 

‘‘ As I don’t mean to strike up an intimate friend- 
ship with him, I don’t mind his morals. Will you 
kindly give me his address ?” 

Yes, yes,” growled Sylvain, harshly; then, sud- 
denly flying into a furious rage, he cried, “ I notice 
that during the fifteen minutes you have spent here 
you have turned your back upon all my pictures.” 

“ Why, master ! I refrained ” 

“ Oh, from what should you refrain ? Open 
your eyes. What do you say to this canvas?” 
With these words Monsieur Sylvain planted him- 
self in front of his Bulgarian corpses. 


88 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


Jack was very reluctant to speak falsely. “ The 
picture is horrible,” he said, slowly, “ hut it is mag- 
nificently painted.” 

believe you, — Fm sure it’s well painted. I 
should like to know a single one of the artists who 
rule the picture market to-day who could come 
within a hand’s-hreadth — ay, a hand’s-hreadth of 
me! There is power, imagination !” 

“ Yes, yes. Colossal, colossal 1” murmured J ack, 
hut without sincere conviction. In the depths of 
his heart he considered the artist’s production old- 
fashioned. 

Sylvain frowned. Just at that moment some 
one knocked. 

The artist started. “ Come in !” he called; add- 
ing, “ Come, Luca,” as a man clad in slovenly at- 
tire, half city, half provincial, entered. Instead of 
a shirt-collar he wore a gay cotton kerchief around 
his neck. An indescribably servile grin, intended 
to he conciliatory, distorted his pock-marked face. 
He had long hair, parted on the right side, small, 
cunning blue eyes, a turned-up nose, and thick lips. 

It was evident that he was of Italian birth ; but 
one could not help wondering how an Italian could 
manage to look so ordinary. 

“ Luca Canini,” said Sylvain, as if presenting 
him to Jack. “You come just in the nick of 
time,” he added ; “ here is a young gentleman who 
wants a model.” 

suo servizio, JEccellenza replied Luca, 
grinning and pressing his dirty soft gray felt hat 
to his breast. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


89 


“ When do you wish to begin ?” asked Sylvain. 

To-morrow 

“ ^Oj not to-morrow. I promised Lady Leclerq 
to go to the Bois with her.” 

“ Yes, there we have the story,” laughed Syl- 
vain. 

“ To-morrow, then, for aught I care,” cried Jack, 
angrily. Til excuse myself to Lady Leclerq, and 
turn boor, merely to prove that I really mean to 
be an artist.” 

‘‘ You must, or you’ll never get on,” Sylvain 
assented. Shall I arrange the price for you ?” 

‘‘ Whatever Milor’ gives will content me,” Luca 
protested, with his cringing servility. If it suits 
the gentleman, at nine to-morrow. Y ery well, then, 
— at nine. But I beg a thousand pardons, there’s 
a female model at the door, — if you will permit me 
to bring her in, — ^perhaps she might be useful to 
one of the gentlemen.” 

“ I am supplied for the present,” replied Sylvain ; 
‘‘and I would advise you” — turning to Jack — 
“ not to commence with a female model. In the 
first place, the structure of the male figure is more 
strongly marked ; you will learn more ; and, sec- 
ondly, the artistic earnestness of the situation is 
less imperilled.” 

“ But this is such a remarkably beautiful model. 
Sciisi, Eccellenza, j ust a moment. ” Without waiting 
for an answer, Luca opened the door and called 
“ Angiolina !” 

A young Italian woman of about two-and-twenty, 
tall, broad-shouldered, and with a head of remark- 
8 * 


90 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


able beauty, entered the studio. She was muffled 
in a gray waterproof cloak, and, like many girls 
of her station in Paris, wore no covering on her 
head. 

‘‘Take off that thing!” cried Sylvain, in his 
business-like artist manner, pulling at the end of 
her cloak. 

Luca Canini offlciously helped her to remove 
the ugly wrap. 

Under the mantle she wore a dark-green gown, 
plain to bareness, but free from any touch of bad 
taste, and beneath whose folds, falling gracefully 
around her, the beautiful contours of her figure 
were distinctly visible. 

“ Well, what do you say to this ?” asked Sylvain, 
taking the young person by the elbow and turning 
her towards Jack. 

His eyes met the model’s. His heart gave a sud- 
den throb. He recognized the mysterious beauty 
whom he had seen the evening of his arrival in 
Paris on the bank of the Seine. 

The blood mounted to his brow ; he perceived 
that she also recognized him and that the remem- 
brance of their first meeting was disagreeable. 
She averted her face, frowning angrily. 

“What a figure 1” cried Sylvain ; then, turning 
to the model, he asked, “ Posez-vous V ensemble 

At this perfectly justifiable business question 
Jack felt his blood burn to his finger-tips ; the girl 
started as if she had received a blow. 

“ Ho, she won’t ; she never will,” answered Luca, 
in a tone of sincere regret. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 91 

“ She is perfectly right,” returned Sylvain, 
bluntly ; ‘‘ so it’s only the head and hands ?” 

“Yes; hut just see what hands they are, Eccel- 
lenza !” Luca took Angiolina by the finger-tips to 
make the artist note their exquisite beauty. “ The 
long fingers and the shape of the thumb, and the 
delicate yet strong wrist, — and the nape of the 
neck !” 

Luca seized the model by the hair, which was 
twisted in a heavy knot somewhat low on the neck. 

The girl shook off his hand ; her eyes sparkled 
with a wrathful light. 

“ That is sutficient ; I will write the address,” 
said Sylvain, taking up a hit of charcoal. 

“ Angiolina,” Luca began, “ Rue de la Roche- 
foucauld.” 

“ Yes, — and the price ?” 

“ Ten francs a sitting.” 

“ That’s high,” remarked Sylvain. 

The girl was about to speak ; Luca interrupted 
her. 

“ She is an unusually beautiful model.” 

“That is true.” Sylvain had written the ad- 
dress; he nodded to the girl, “ Good-morning; I’ll 
send you a postal-card if I need you.” 

Meanwhile, Jack had helped her put on her 
cloak, receiving only a bend of the head by way 
of thanks. 

Luca was going with her. “ Have you arranged 
your business with him?” Sylvain asked Jack. 
“He is to come to you to-morrow at ten, isn’t 
he ?” 


92 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


^‘!N"o. 4, Boulevard Bocliechouart,’’ said Jack. 
Luca vanished, grinning. 

What do you say to the Italian girl Sylvain 
asked the young Englishman, after the door had 
closed behind the model. “ A phenomenal beauty ; 
I must paint her. An idea has just entered my 
head, — a Vestal Virgin in Spring! That will be 
splendid, — a masterpiece ! Why, my dear fellow, 
how you look ! You are positively bewitched, — and 
yet mean to study art seriously, when the beauty 
of the first model upsets you in this fashion V* 
Monsieur Sylvain could not stop laughing. 

“ Nonsense 1” Jack muttered, through his teeth. 
“ Nonsense ! there are certain circumstances ” 

“ What kind of circumstances asked Mon- 
sieur Sylvain. 

Jack frowned ; he suddenly saw, very clearly, 
that any explanation of the circumstances of his 
acquaintance with Angiolina, the serious view he 
took of the matter, would render him no less 
ridiculous in the eyes of the old Frenchman. So 
he kept the circumstances to himself. “ I must 
go to dinner,” he said, seizing his hat. 

“ Indeed ; with whom do you dine ?” asked 
Sylvain. 

“ With the Grants at the Continental ; we are 
going to the theatre in the evening.” 

“ Aha, with the Grants ! Very rich Americans, 
and pretty girls, too. The oldest one likes you, 
doesn’t she? Marry, my dear fellow; take my 
advice, marry ; it’s the only career which will suit 
you. K you knew how much perseverance and 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


93 


sacrifice it requires to make a real artist ! Mine 
did not hold out, unfortunately. You see what I 
have become. Well, well, a man mustn’t belittle 
himself, and all Paris shall talk about my next 
picture, — I tell you that in advance, — all Paris.” 

Jack left the studio in an excited, angry mood. 

He was familiar with the old artist’s career, — 
everybody in Paris knew it, — and while dressing 
for dinner he pondered over it. 

Armand Sylvain was a man who, gifted by na- 
ture with great talent, had made a brilliant en- 
trance into the world of art at a comparatively 
early age, a debut still remembered in art circles, 
and who now belonged to the mournful category 
of the hy-gones. 

He had succeeded in life too early. His artistic 
idealism had been stified, at first slowly, then more 
and more rapidly, by success and the prosperity 
which follows in its train. 

The deep earnestness which is the substance of 
all genuine artistic aspiration had been lost in the 
desire for pleasure and the delightful opportunity 
presented for gratifying it. He knew this and 
theorized extensively about it, but without check- 
ing the pursuit of enjoyment which was destroying 
the artistic side of his nature. Art was to him a 
lucrative profession, which helped him to a pleas- 
ant life. His thoughts- were no longer occupied 
with his pictures, but with the great ladies who 
flattered him, and with whom he spent evening 


94 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


after evening, ostensibly to study new types for 
his paintings, but really because the charm which 
surrounded these aristocratic dames was so fasci- 
nating to his artistic temperament and his vanity 
that it held him captive, because he felt at home 
here, and nowhere else was indolence so delightful 
as in this world of elegance. Yet he did not 
neglect his colleagues ; he was always hail fellow 
well met with them, and ready for any studio 
merry-making; he emptied his glass of wine to- 
day at the same table with his porter, and to- 
morrow sipped his goblet of champagne at the 
banquet given by his emperor; he was never 
ashamed of a poor relation or a shabby friend, 
and, besides his various aristocratic flirtations, was 
on terms of intimacy with the most famous ac- 
tresses of the day. E’o, he neglected no one save 
— art. He was still a fashionable painter, but no 
longer an artist. Every day he performed a set 
task, — dashed off with skilful haste, — executed 
with rapid strokes and usually glaring effects of 
color a picture which some covetous art-dealer took 
from the easel before the paints were dry. Eor 
the rest, he relied upon advertising to maintain 
his reputation. He had pursued this course a long 
time, but it was impossible to maintain such a 
condition of afiairs permanently. 

A few journalists, whom he had known all his 
life and who had grown old and bitter with him, 
a few young men to whom he had done favors, 
still kept up a little clamor about him, and some 
American art-dealers preserved him from want. 


A LEATLESS SPRING. 


95 


This was all lie could boast of in bis old age. He 
no longer desired to go into society. His old 
admirers still invited him, but, after all, there was 
little amusement in sitting among a group of eld- 
erly ladies and protesting that he did not see their 
wrinkles, while young artists were paying court to 
fair women, — ^women who belonged to a generation 
who knew nothing of his renown. 

His health had failed with his talent ; he suffered 
from gout and asthma, and could not reconcile 
himself to his gray hair. His only pleasure now 
consisted in sitting in front of the Cafe Tortoni 
for two hours, in the midst of a group of artists 
and literati, who, like himself, were dissatisfied 
with the degree of success they had attained, and 
discussing his theories. 

He possessed the extensive vocabulary and crush- 
ing paradoxes of artists whose fame is waning. 
Formerly an appreciative colleague and kindly 
comrade, he was now consumed with professional 
envy, overfiowing with injurious judgments of all 
rising young artists, and full of praise of the per- 
formances of the work of the young women. 

He had all sorts of theories concerning art, — the- 
ories in and of themselves correct and clever, but 
which became wearisome to his hearers because 
he used them only to prove the excellence of his 
own work and the worthlessness of other people’s 
productions. 

Every day he sat in front of Tortoni’s for two 
long hours preaching ; in other words, reviling. It 
was the sole pleasure his botched life knew. 


96 


A LEAFLESS SPRING, 


The thought of this marred artistic career 
haunted Jack all the evening. 

In many respects Syl vain’s example was a warn- 
ing. “ Marry, marry !” echoed in his ears. “It 
is the only career which suits you.” 

Perhaps the old man was right. During the 
dinner he was pursued by the thought whether a 
union with pretty, elegant, vivacious Miss Grant 
might not afford the best escape from his financial 
difficulties. Marrying her was certainly less ter- 
rible than wedding Mary Winter. He began to 
consider the matter very seriously. 

Suddenly the face of the poor Italian model rose 
before him. In vain he tried to drive it away ; in 
vain he strove to form a sensible resolution. It 
would not depart. 

He became more and more silent, and, at the 
theatre, to which he accompanied the Grants after 
dinner as had been arranged, he sat behind the 
two ladies with a listless air, scarcely noticing what 
was passing on the stage. 

Miss Grant glanced at him several times, but he 
avoided her eyes. 

By the time the play reached the third interval 
between the acts Miss Grant had reached the con- 
viction that nothing was to be expected from this 
young man, and, as she was a practical person, 
she instantly relinquished all efforts to change 
the situation, nay, even consoled herself with the 
thought that Jack had no title, and consequently 
really never had been so very desirable a match. 

They parted at the close of the performance on 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


97 


the best possible terms, like two persons who knew 
exactly wbat each had to expect from the other, 
Miss Grant holding out her hand in the most friendly 
manner as Jack took his leave at the door of the 
hotel, and he could not help acknowledging that 
American women, after all, had some good traits. 

He made his way homeward in a somewhat 
depressed mood. 

When he had left the Eue de la Chaussee 
d’Antin behind him, the neighborhood became 
silent and desolate. There were few street-lamps, 
the night was dark; an odor of wet stones per- 
vaded the streets ; large drops of water fell plash- 
ing from the roofs upon the pavement; a trans- 
parent gray mist was doing its best to blur the 
outlines of every object. 

The buzz and hum of music from the cheap 
dancing-halls reached his ears, — the distance was 
too great to recognize the melody, — it was akin to 
the odor of repulsive food. A pair of masked 
figures emerged from a side-street ; the man dis- 
guised as a Scot, with very thin legs and too long 
a body ; the woman as a Columbine, with drooping 
wings. Both looked half famished, and the man 
was singing with the quavering remnants of what 
had once been a well-trained voice, — 

“ J'eiais assis prls d'elle^ 

Un souffle (Pair leger 

Apportait jusqu' d moi I'odeur des orangers.^^ 

At first Jack wanted to laugh at the cracked 
notes, hut he could not. 

E <7 9 


98 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


“Heavens, how dreadfnl life is!” he thought; 
“ the only thing worth while in it is delusion, 

and the most powerful delusion of all is ” He 

paused and stamped angrily ; was he really on the 
verge of falling in love? A serious leaning in 
this direction would have been very unpleasant to 
him, especially for a model. 

“How long has she been in Paris?” asked 
Jack. 

It was the day after mi-cartme. He had really 
given up the ride with Lady Leclerq to show 
his earnest devotion to art, and for two hours had 
steadily sketched Luca Canini’s back on a piece 
of very coarse blue paper. The work had inter- 
ested him, and he had once more become enthusi- 
astic. Hot until Luca gave unmistakable signs of 
weariness did he pause in his study of the Italian’s 
bones and muscles. 

Luca, shivering in spite of the additional heat 
maintained in the room on his account, was crouch- 
ing beside the stove refreshing himself with a sand- 
wich of bread and sausage, which he cut into small 
pieces with a coarse, somewhat dull pocket-knife. 
He ate slowly and with gusto. 

Jack, who meanwhile was pacing to and fro 
with his hands thrust into the pockets of his coat 
as usual, had asked him, as if by chance, one or 
two questions about Angiolina. 

“ How long has she lived in Paris ?” 

“ Two years,” replied Luca. 

“ H’m ! And whence did she come ?” 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 99 

“I don’t know; she was recommended to me 
hy a colleague.” 

“I suppose you receive a certain percentage 
from the models for procuring employment ?” 

“ Often, — a mere trifle, — but a man must live.” 
Luca grinned insinuatingly. 

“ Yes ; but tell me, how does it happen that so 
beautiful a person as this Angiolina needs an agent 
to obtain patrons? She ought to be in general 
demand.” 

“ She would be if anything could be done with 
her, but she is too prudish ; she will sit only to 
artists who treat her like a princess. The least 
advance, even a jesting word, and she will not 
return. I ask the Signor what notions these are 
for a poor girl who is alone in the world and must 
earn her living.” 

Luca yawned and stretched, then clasped his 
hands, making all his finger-joints crack. 

“ So — she has a stainless reputation ?” asked 
Jack, gruffly. 

“ Yes ! Hitherto, yes !” Luca shrugged his 
shoulders, over which he had flung a green and 
blue plaid shawl. “ Some say it is from ambition, 
because she aims at a wealthy husband, and others 
declare that she has left a lover in the Campagna. 
It may be so. Many of the betrothed brides who 
pose for artists in Home bear unsullied names, but 
it is rarely so in Paris.” 

Jack started. The idea that Angiolina was 
amassing money for some black-bearded Italian 
mechanic or peasant to whom she was betrothed 


100 


A LEAFLESS SPRING, 


did not affect him pleasantly. After a pause he 
began a second time, — 

“ H’m ! I shall need a model of this style. You 
might engage Angiolina to come to me next week.” 

Luca nodded. “ But the Signor knows it is only 
for the head and hands. She does nothing else.” 

“ I know, I know !” cried Jack, curtly. “ I need 
nothing else. She is to pose for a nun.” 

“ Oh, if she’s to pose for a nun. I’ll see what I 
can do for the Signor.” 

“ Have you rested long enough ?” 

“ /Sit, Eccellenza.^^ 

“ You’ll bring me an answer to-morrow ?” 

‘‘ Sir 

While Jack returned to the careful study of 
Luca Canini’s muscles, a strange feeling of pleas- 
urable expectation stole over him. He eagerly 
anticipated the few hours which, for the small 
price of ten francs, he would be permitted to spend 
in the society of the beautiful model. 

The next day Luca entered Jack Ferrars’s studio 
accompanied by a tall, thin woman, with gloomy 
black eyes, a sharp nose, and a face as white as 
chalk. 

“ Why, what does this mean ?” asked the young 
Englishman, angrily. 

“ Milor’ wanted a model for a nun,” Luca began, 
‘‘ so I ventured to bring him one ; Agathe, whose 
specialty is nuns and saints.” 

“ I wanted Angiolina and no one else !” shouted 
Jack. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING, 


101 


“ Angiollna cannot be had,” replied Luca, with 
a despairing gesture; “but I can propose other 
nuns to Milor’, — one with blue eyes and red lashes ; 
she makes an excellent picture.” 

“ Deuce take you !” cried Jack ; “ why didn’t you 
engage Angiolina ?” 

“ Because Angiolina can’t be had ; because An- 
giolina won’t pose for Monsieur!” exclaimed the 
offended, rejected Agathe, in a very sharp tone. 

“ Why not ?” 

“ Because — oh, I believe she thinks Milor’ is too 
young,” replied Luca Canini, still pressing his 
dirty felt hat against his ragged yellow shirt. 

“ She thinks Monsieur doesn’t study art with 
sufficient earnestness,” the model added. 

At these words Jack opened the door and 
showed the forward Agathe promptly out of the 
room. 

Luca, deeply abashed, approached the model’s 
platform. “Doesn’t Monsieur intend to work to- 
day ?” he asked, timidly. 

“ For aught I care, yes.” 

“ Milor’ must not blame me on account of An- 
giolina. Heaven knows I can’t help it. If Milor’ 
only knew how whimsical she is ; really, altogether 
too prudish. That’s why all her colleagues call 
her the Marchesina.” 

Jack was vexed with himself He firmly re- 
solved to think no more of the Marchesina. What 
could be the result ? The afiair could end in but 
one way, and to pursue that systematically was 
9 * 


102 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


repugnant to Jack. Thougli unusually suscepti- 
ble to feminine charms, he had never yet inten- 
tionally assumed the role of a Don J uan. 

He had had no definite object in sending for 
Angiolina to come to his studio. His main pur- 
pose had been to strive, by the utmost courtesy, to 
efiace the unpleasant impression which appeared 
to have remained on her mind after her first meet- 
ing with him on the hank of the Seine. Beyond 
this his thoughts encountered something hazy and 
indistinct, from which he avoided lifting the veil 
by any clear refiection. In affairs of the heart he 
simply left himself to his fate. 

Yet, incautious as he was in this respect, he 
perceived that any further efforts to force himself 
upon the Marchesina’s acquaintance could lead 
only to evil or folly. 

He resolved to let his mind dwell on the Mar- 
chesina no longer. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


103 


III. 

My dear Jack, — 

Your epistles have been very rare of late. Too 
bad ! You wrote so fully from Cayeux, such nice, 
amusing, pleasant letters. But this is no reproach, 
only a regret. Besides, I hope we shall soon have 
an opportunity to exchange our thoughts verbally. 
A great transformation has taken place in our 
home. Just think. Jack, Sarah is married. You 
certainly anticipate something terrible. But mat- 
ters are not so bad. Thank Heaven, negro grand- 
children will be spared me. Yet the whole matter 
turned on a hair. Sarah was perfectly infatuated 
with her African. But one day her illusions were 
shattered. It appeared that the calling of a clergy- 
man was not sufficient to fill the Bev. Juniper’s 
life. He had a more trivial occupation. By day 
he preached to the white slaves in the East End of 
London a gospel of love and temperance, and in 
the evening — ^well, in the evening he sang couplets 
in a cafe chantant 

Abraham Bray, the young decorator, whom you 
probably remember seeing at the delightful after- 
noon entertainment which you attended at Ivy 
Lodge, — you know he first executed the harmoni- 
ous wall-paintings and then the piano accompani- 
ment, — was the first to call Sarah’s attention to the 


104 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


interesting twofold existence of the sable mis- 
sionary. She would not believe him, hut he said, 
“ Convince yourself.” One evening she attended 
with Bray — unfortunately, I knew nothing of it 
until afterwards, or I might perhaps have vetoed 
the proceeding — a performance at the Music Hall 
which was the scene of Juniper’s humorous ac- 
tivity. She wore a Salvation bonnet, and was 
closely veiled. Juniper appeared on the platform ; 
at first she did not recognize him ; it appears he 
wore a head-dress and girdle of feathers, in which 
costume he executed several African dances. But 
afterwards he entered in ordinary clothing, and 
sang couplets in which he ridiculed the apostles 
of temperance. Doubt of his identity was no 
longer possible, nor could there be any question 
of the insincerity of his ostentatious love for the 
cause. I had already begun to feel anxious about 
Sarah’s prolonged absence, though I supposed her 
to be at a Methodist prayer-meeting. Towards 
midnight she returned, accompanied by Abraham 
Bray. She was in an indescribable state of mind, 
but told us all, — that is, the destruction of her de- 
lusion. Suddenly she gasped for breath and went 
into hysterical convulsions. We were obliged to 
put her to bed. When, after soothing her, I re- 
turned to the sitting-room, Bray was still there. 
He was bathed in tears and had rumpled his yellow 
hair till it looked like a hail-smitten wheat-field. 
Bushing towards me with clasped hands, he 
shrieked, ‘‘How is she? Oh, that magnificent 
woman and that cannibal, that African crocodile ! 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


105 


It is infuriating, it is horrible ! Oh, that magnifi- 
cent woman It required a great deal of energy 
to get him out of the house. 

Sarah became ill, — that is, she kept her room for 
several days. To tell the truth, I felt no great 
anxiety about her. But poor Bray was all the 
more concerned. He inquired for the “ magnifi- 
cent woman’’ daily. When Sarah at last came 
down-stairs, he was the only person whose presence 
she could endure, the only one who had sufficient 
sympathy for her condition. Gradually he began 
to pay her marked attention — in his own way. He 
sang Beethoven’s penitential hymn daily, and re- 
peated at least three times in the course of every 
visit that she was a grand woman. 

One day last week I wondered why Sarah was 
so late in coming to breakfast, and sent to her 
chamber to ask if she was ill. She was not there. 
I began to be anxious. At half-past ten she ap- 
peared, leaning on Bray’s arm. Both asked my 
blessing; they had just been married. 

I felt rather sorry for the young painter, but 
in other respects I cannot say that I had much 
objection to the matter. Perhaps marriage will 
make Sarah a little more sensible, — ^at least, more 
like other people. He is ten years younger than 
she, and a fool. But, strange as it may appear to 
you, he is honestly and sincerely in love with her. 
At present they bill and coo from morning till 
night. They have strange plans for the future, — 
his art is to work wonders in the service of Sarah’s 
ideas of morality. Both intend to convert the 


106 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


whole world to temperance. She means to give 
readings, I believe, and he will act impressario and 
paint the backgrounds. Well, good luck attend 
them. 

The most absurd part of it all is that this ro- 
mance of my oldest step-daughter, vulgar and gro- 
tesque as it really is, has been sufficient to upset 
Mary. She is indignant with Sarah; she turns 
her head away or leaves the room when the hus- 
band and wife kiss each other; she talks to me 
about Sarah’s lack of good taste : yet with it all I 
see that the great longing for happiness which, at 
the appointed hour, robs the shrewdest of clear- 
sightedness, the strongest of power, has taken pos- 
session of poor little Mary. Externally she is 
as well-bred as ever, — cold, formal, somewhat stiff. 
One must know her very thoroughly, watch her 
from morning until night, to perceive what I 
notice. The little flame which is flickering in 
her heart has only just vigor enough to torture 
her ; could it ever become sufficiently strong to 
warm her whole nature, to kindle a spark in 
another soul ? I do not know ; I should almost 
fear the contrary. 

Poor little Mary ! I write in the hope that you 
can aid me in the effort to amuse her, give her 
thoughts another direction. 

She told me recently that she intended to devote 
herself seriously to painting, and asked if I would 
go with her to Paris for a short time that she 
might pursue her studies there. When I remarked 
that I had not known she felt so much interest in 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


107 


painting, she answered quietly, ‘‘ Hitherto I have 
not ; but we must have an object in life.’’ 

She is perfectly right, we must have an object 
in life ; so, for aught I care, let us try art. 

I hear that my old friend Sylvain has estab- 
lished a studio for ladies. Will you ask him in my 
name if he will receive Mary as a pupil ? I believe 
he will take some little trouble with her, for the 
sake of auld lang syne. How far away, and how 
beautiful, those days are ! What will he say when 
he sees me again with my white hair ! At first he 
will not recognize me ; then — I am an old woman 
now, so old that I can frankly confess how much 
pleasure I anticipate in meeting him once more. 

But I anticipate still more in meeting you, my 
sunny-tempered darling. As soon as the time for 
our departure is fixed I will telegraph, that you 
may engage rooms for us in some nice quiet hotel. 
With best love. 

Your old aunt, 

Jane Winter. 

Jack received this letter in his studio one sunny 
afternoon in the latter part of April. 

After reading it, he first uttered a humorous 
groan, then folded it, and finally placed it on his 
writing-table under a paper-weight in the form of 
a bronze salamander which a coquettish little Pole 
had given him in payment for a bet he had won. 
The Pole had had some sentimental association 
with the salamander, hut Jack had none. To him 
it was merely a very pretty paper-weight. He was 


108 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


thinking for the nonce of no women save the 
Marchesina. His Aunt Jane’s letter momentarily 
diverted his thoughts from this problem. Her 
account of the black missionary’s twofold activity 
filled him with malicious satisfaction ; he made a 
wry face at the news of Sarah’s marriage ; in spite 
of his democratic principles, it did not atford him 
the utmost gratification to be compelled to number 
a Methodist house-painter among his nearest rela- 
tives. Mary’s sudden passion for painting aroused 
a little sarcastic amusement, though with a loyal 
credulity rarely experienced he did not seek for an 
instant beneath this passion anything which Mary 
did not desire to betray. 

That love for art was merely the pretext which 
enabled the girl to see her cousin Jack and share 
his aspirations never entered the young man’s 
mind. It simply amused him that a person so 
utterly devoid of artistic talent as Mary Winter 
should wish to paint, and his imagination suddenly 
conjured up all sorts of beautiful productions in 
which her total want of ability would show itself. 
He always trembled when he thought of this little 
cousin. Then he good-naturedly took his hat and 
went to Monsieur Syl vain’s to discuss Mary’s ar- 
tistic education with him. He met Syl vain in the 
street a few steps from the house where he lived. 

“Ah, Ferrars! You here? Are you on your 
way to see me ?” he cried. 

“Yes,” Jack answered. 

“ H’m !” Monsieur Syl vain smiled. “ I suppose 
you wanted to see my new picture, pi marche. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


109 


marche ! It will be a famous work ; the Marche- 
sina is sitting to me for it. You remember the 
Italian model. Superb ! I am painting her as a 
vestal virgin against a background of blooming 
spring flowers. Imagine it! IVe been racking 
my brains for a name to give the picture, for the 
title plays an important part nowadays. The 
Yestal in Spring. What do you think of that? 
Or, The Yestal and the Spring? or. The Treason of 
the Spring ? Eh, what do you say to that ? That’s 
taking, isn’t it ? The Treason of the Spring.” 

‘‘ Ce coquin de printemps,’’ escaped Jack’s lips. 
A true child of his time, the old-fashioned artist’s 
romantic fancies produced a comical eflect upon 
him. Ce coquin de printemps was the title of a 
wretched play which had recently been performed 
at a third-rate theatre on the Boulevards. 

The old artist’s brows contracted in an angry 
frown : “You are insuiferable, Ferrars ; you take 
nothing seriously. Good-morning.” 

“ But, Monsieur Sylvain !” cried Jack, detaining 
him, “ how can you — if you only knew how anx- 
ious I am to see your work !” 

“Indeed?” Sylvain stopped and looked sus- 
piciously at him. “ Indeed, — really ? H’m ! Let 
us turn back ; I’ll show you. The thing is good, 
— ^good !” 

“ Surely you won’t go up those two flights of 
stairs on my account,” Jack protested, consider- 
ately. “If you Avill allow me. I’ll come to- 
morrow.” 

“ Yery well. But be sure to do so; you’ll be sur- 
10 


110 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


prised. Between ourselves, I owe a great deal in 
the picture to Angiolina.” Monsieur Sylvain thrust 
his arm familiarly through Jack’s. “ That model — 
she is a beauty, — perfectly tireless, and a very en- 
tertaining little person. J ust think, she has read 
Leopardi and plays the piano. She discusses liter- 
ature and the last piece at the Theatre Fran9ais 
with so much intelligence and interest.” 

‘‘What did you say?” murmured Jack, whose 
blood had rushed to his brain at this mention of 
Angiolina. 

“Yes, yes, it’s very strange. I really cannot 
reconcile her unusual degree of cultivation with 
her position. I often wonder whether she may not 
have been for a time the companion of some clever 
old roueJ’ 

“Why, Monsieur Sylvain!” cried Jack, indig- 
nantly. 

“Well, what is it?” The artist did not under- 
stand how his remark could have annoyed the 
young Englishman. 

“ What put such an idea into your head ?” asked 
Jack, with angry bluntness. 

“ Wliat put it into my head? WTiy, it is very 
natural.” 

Sylvain pushed his tall silk hat a little back from 
his forehead, and gazed quietly at his companion. 

“ So — h’m ! — ^Angiolina’s prudery has proved — to 
be — a mere invention of Luca Canini ?” asked Jack, 
somewhat hesitatingly. 

“ Prudery, — ^prudery,” Monsieur Sylvain repeated 
the word scornfully ; “ I had no opportunity to put 


A LEAFLIJSS SPRING. 


Ill 


it to tlie test. She takes no fancy to me, and in my 
presence is a model of reserve. But what does 
that prove, my dear fellow, — what does it prove ? 
And what does it matter ? Tell me, why do you 
insist upon thinking Angiolina a Jeanne d’Arc? 
Oh, perhaps you are in love with the fair one ?” 

“ E’onsense !” cried Jack. “ I have never said a 
word to her. But ” 

“ Well, hut what 

‘‘ I think it is shameful to slander a girl so hap- 
hazard ?” exclaimed Jack, fiercely. 

“A girl,” Sylvain repeated, thoughtfully, “a 
girl. How do you know that she is a girl ? She 
may he a widow.” 

Jack hit his lips. “ To he frank, it is a matter 
of the utmost indifference to me. Monsieur Syl- 
vain,” he retorted. “But, before I forget it, I 
should like to ask you a favor.” 

“Yes, yes, out with it. I’ll do what I can, — 
unless it is to lend you a hundred francs, for I 
haven’t them,” answered Sylvain, jestingly. 

“Don’t he anxious on that score,” replied Jack. 
“ The point in question doesn’t concern such mat- 
ters, but relates to a cousin of mine who is seeking 
an object in life.” 

“ Indeed ; why doesn’t she get married ?” asked 
Sylvain. “ Is she poor ?” 

Jack laughed heartily. 

“ That seems to be, in your opinion, the only 
sufficient reason why a girl should remain single.” 

“ The only one, except very had health,” said 
Sylvain. 


112 


A LI^AFLESS SPRING, 


“ In our country there are other motives which 
induce girls to remain spinsters.” 

H’m ! With you the girls must wait till some- 
body falls in love with them.” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ Horrible !” cried the old Frenchman. ‘‘An 
idiotic state of aftairs, — unhealthful, — immoral. 
Three-quarters of the young girls in the well-to-do, 
educated, middle classes are not charming enough 
to inspire love. Yet they are so constituted as to 
form very admirable wives and mothers. What do 
you do with them ? Do they all remain single ?” 

“A large number of them do. The others ” 

“ Meet a few clever young men, who, after due 
examination of all accessory circumstances, per- 
suade themselves that they feel an ardent love. 
Pshaw ! this nonsense about marriages of affection 
is now creeping in among us. You may take my 
word for it, nine out of every ten so-called love- 
matches are based upon very unromantic motives. 
But let us talk of something else. So your cousin 
is devoting herself to painting in desperation be- 
cause nobody has thought of falling in love with 
her? We’ll see what can be done for her.” 

“ My aunt asks whether you will receive Mary as 
one of your lady students ?” said Jack. 

“ Your aunt ? Who is your aunt ?” 

“Mrs. Winter,” replied Jack; “the lady who 
gave me my letter of introduction to you.” 

“Yes,” replied Sylvain; “hut, to own the truth, 
I mislaid the letter before reading it. All letters 
of introduction are alike, and I have certainly 


A LIJAFLESS SPRING. 


113 


received you cordially. What is your aunt’s 
name ?” 

‘‘ Mrs. Winter. She was Miss Ferrars.” 

“ Ferrars ! Ferrars !” murmured Sylvain. “ The 
name certainly seems very familiar, hut I have 
known so many Englishwomen in the course of 
my life. At any rate, I am positive that your aunt 
is charming. You are charming, too, — only you’ll 
never amount to anything ; as an artist I mean, of 
course. For you are a splendid fellow. Write to 
your aunt whatever you choose, the most compli- 
mentary assurances ; and, for Heaven’s sake, don’t 
mention that I lost the letter of introduction before 
reading it. I’m sure I don’t know how it hap- 
pened. Oh, here we are.” 

The artist had stopped before one of Duval’s 
restaurants. 

“You see how far I have come down !” he ex- 
claimed. “ This is my Cafe Anglais. Will you 
dine with me, Ferrars ? The cooking really isn’t 
bad.” 

“ I know that from my own experience,” replied 
Jack, “ hut the hour is too early for me. Then I 
can write to my aunt that you will give Mary 
lessons ?” 

“ Certainly, certainly !” 

When Jack returned to his studio, he drew the 
old lady’s letter from under the paper-weight where 
he had placed it and read it a second time, smiling 
sorrowfully yet with great tenderness as he did so. 
“ Poor old lady ! How long women retain such 
h 


114 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


memories!” Jack’s handsome blue eyes grew 
dim, and he passed his hand tenderly over the 
sheet written by his clever, foolish aunt ; nay, he 
even kissed it ere he laid it aside again, and, in- 
stead of placing it on his writing-table under the 
salamander, he locked it in a drawer where he was 
in the habit of keeping a few little treasures. 

Suddenly Jack remembered a sentence ITapoleon 
wrote in a letter sent from his camp to J osephine 
shortly before the battle of Eylau, in reply to a 
few loving reminiscences from the beautiful Cre- 
ole, — 

“ My poor Josephine ! At first I hardly under- 
stood your tender allusions. What memories you 
women have !” 

Jack sighed. 

A few days later the Winters reached Paris. 
Jack met them at the Gare du llTord. Mary had 
grown prettier. True, her figure was still too thin 
and her teeth were prominent, but her tasteful 
travelling-gown fitted her perfectly, and her fresh 
complexion was admirably set off by the yellow 
skins of the Frenchwomen. 

^Nevertheless she had no charm for Jack, — not 
the slightest. He was forced to make an effort to 
look at or speak to her. The well-bred monotony 
with which the words fell from her lips drove him 
to despair, — the everlasting “to be sure,” “how 
interesting,” “ sweet,” etc. Yet she chattered con- 
tinuously. 

Meeting his old Aunt Jane once more, on the 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


115 


contrary, filled Jack with sincere pleasure. How 
cordially she shared it, what warm words she found 
to greet her “ sunny-tempered darling 

Jack attended to everything she and Mary 
needed, and then entered an open carriage with 
the two ladies to drive to the Hotel Castiglione, 
where he had engaged rooms for them. 

Mary talked perpetually with the same well- 
bred, meaningless volubility. The old lady, on 
the contrary, was very silent. She was restless 
and excited, as she dreamily inhaled the fragrance 
of the dewy wall-fiowers and lilies of the valley 
which floated to them from the hand-carts of the 
flower-girls, or let her eyes wander over the houses 
and people as the carriage drove by. 

“ Back again in dear, wicked old Paris !” she 
murmured. It seemed as though some very 
important event was on hand, as if she were 
on the threshold of some change in her exist- 
ence. 

After Mary Winter had discovered that she 
needed an object in life, it also became evident to 
her that she must pursue this object as swiftly as 
possible. It was arranged that Jack was to call at 
the hotel the very next day and take the ladies to 
Sylvain. When, punctually at the hour appointed, 
he appeared, Mrs. Winter already sat waiting by 
the hearth in her little hotel parlor, attired in a 
heavy, stiff black silk gown, with her hands sol- 
emnly folded over a pocket-handkerchief which 
lay in her lap. 


116 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


‘‘ What a pretty portrait you would make, 
auntie !” said Jack. 

She straightened herself a little, blushed, and 
cast a side-glance into the mirror. 

“ Do you think so ?” she murmured, in a some- 
what embarrassed tone. “Well, I was never 
pretty, but some people liked me.’’ 

Soon after Mary appeared, bringing a large port- 
folio filled with sketches. 

“ Would you like to look at these things, Jack ?” 
she asked. “ Which of them shall I show to Mon- 
sieur Sylvain ?” 

Jack tried to discover a difierence between the 
various weak and meaningless pictures executed 
by his cousin, but, unable to do so, he at last ad- 
vised Mary to take the whole portfolio. Mary felt 
fiattercd. There are women who manage to inter- 
pret everything as fiattery. Then — w^hile drawing 
on her gloves — she asked Jack to ring the bell, 
and ordered the waiter who answered it to call 
a carriage and take the portfolio down at once. 
She had a curt, formal manner of giving her di- 
rections which contrasted amusingly with her step- 
mother’s cordiality to everybody in the hotel, from 
the landlady down to the little “buttons” Paul, 
who managed the lift, and the black poodle, which 
was Paul’s most intimate friend. 

According to her principle of always getting the 
full value of everything and never permitting these 
robbers, the Parisian hotel-keepers, to make an 
unfair profit, she rang for the lift, though its mo- 
tion invariably made her ill, and it would have 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 117 

been far more comfortable for her to walk down- 
stairs. 

The landlady, in a black China crepe dress, stood 
smiling pleasantly at the door of the office, and 
the landlord hastily asked if the ladies intended to 
dine at home. 

Under the red and blue striped awning, which 
served the purpose of a tent in the middle of the 
court-yard, sat two American ladies eagerly discuss- 
ing their new finery. On their way out, the Win- 
ters met no less than three porters from difierent 
dressmaking establishments, — one from the Louvre, 
one from the Bon Marche, and one from Worth. 

“ It is extraordinary how much those frivolous 
women spend for trash,” said Mary Winter, as she 
entered the carriage waiting before the arcade; it 
all comes from having no serious object in life.” 

Then Jack crept after the two ladies into the 
little open carriage, where he had great difficulty 
in finding room for his long limbs, and they drove 
across the Place Vendome, past the column shat- 
tered by the Commune, which recorded numerous 
victories no longer interesting to any one, through 
the Kue de la Paix, past the Opera House, directly 
across the busiest, gayest, sunniest part of Paris 
into the narrow labyrinth of the older streets on 
the Boulevard Clichy. Mrs. Winter grew more 
and more silent, her eyes ceased to note what was 
passing around her; she twitched her stiff, old- 
fashioned sleeves nervously up and down. 

The carriage stopped. Two of the female art- 
students in linen blouses, with the intense expres- 


118 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


sion upon haggard faces that is characteristic of 
art-students, now came out of a dairy where they 
had been dining or seeking a model. 

‘‘ There are two ladies who have found their ob- 
ject in life,’’ Jack remarked, not without a touch of 
sarcasm, to his cousin Mary. Mary, not understand- 
ing the sarcasm, merely gazed attentively at the 
two disciples of art and said, “Very interesting,” 
after which they all three climbed the steep yellow 
stairs to Sylvain’s studio. The door stood open ; it 
would have been necessary to make a special effort 
to avoid seeing the interior. Mrs. Winter glanced 
carelessly in. She perceived an old man sitting 
before an easel with a hat on his head and a loose 
white kerchief knotted about his throat, — a man 
with a flabby under lip and round shoulders. A 
little brown-skinned woman, tightly laced, with a 
large bust, a quantity of imitation tortoise-shell 
pins stuck into her elaborately-dressed hair, and 
cheap Parisian flnery displayed all over her person, 
was standing by his side with her hand resting on 
his shoulder, saying, “You know I want flfty francs 
to pay the coalman.” 

“Well, but I haven’t your fifty ” 

J ack noticed that his aunt turned deadly pale 
and started back. Perhaps she would have re- 
turned to the Hotel Castiglione with her business 
unaccomplished, but Monsieur Sylvain looked 
round. The little brown-skinned woman vanished 
as suddenly as though she had gone through a 
trap-door. She had had much practice in these 
sudden disappearances, — Jack was familiar with 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


119 


them, — and Monsieur Sjlvain came forward with 
outstretched hands to greet his guest. 

“ Madame Winter” (he pronounced the name 
“ Yintair”), ‘‘ I am delighted to make your ac- 
quaintance, and also your daughter’s ; that is, I had 
the honor of knowing you years ago, madame ; 
we often met at Madame Anselme’s. You were 
the young lady who always studied the children’s 
heads ?” 

“ ITo,” Mrs. Winter replied ; “ that was Miss 
Johnstone. I painted landscapes.” 

“Landscapes, — ah, pardon me, — ah! I remem- 
ber. Yes, yes, landscapes ; I remember perfectly, 
perfectly.” 

Mrs. Winter fixed her eyes on him, the large 
blue eyes which still remained young in her old 
face. Armand Sylvain started and was silent. 
He did remember now, — remember perfectly. Per- 
haps he, too, was conscious what an unworthy 
path he had pursued, how far he had gone down- 
hill since he took leave of the noble girl; nay, 
perhaps the thought occurred to him that she her- 
self might be aware of it. With the warm-hearted 
spontaneity which still occasionally forced its way 
through his embittered nature, he again held out 
his hand to Mrs. Winter and raised hers to his lips. 
“ If you knew how distinct the past is becoming 
every moment I” he murmured. 

Mrs. Winter was one of those persons who can 
extinguish a light without letting it smoke for 
half an hour. She now mastered the situation at 
once. Smiling at the old artist with no shadow 


120 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


of annoyance or sentimentality, she said, kindly 
but calmly, “We will let the past rest. Monsieur 
Sylvain, and enjoy your present instead.” 

Sylvain’s brows contracted : “ There is nothing 
in my present which any one could enjoy.” 

Evidently he had never in his life been so much 
ashamed of the mediocrity of the goal he had won 
as now when he met the woman who, as a young 
girl, had expected such great attainments from 
him, believed in him so firmly. 

Mrs. Winter’s keen eyes wandered over the 
paintings standing around, without finding in 
them what she had visibly expected. Although 
she had lived in Putney and Monsieur Sylvain in 
Paris, she had kept up with the progress of modern 
art and he had not. 

Mary Winter was saying alternately “sweet” 
and “ very interesting,” when the door of the 
studio suddenly opened and a young woman en- 
tered, dressed very plainly in black, and carrying 
in her arms a large sheaf of flowers. 

“ How beautiful !” Mrs. Winter exclaimed, al- 
most aloud. Jack flushed crimson. 

“ My last model, and more princess than model,” 
Monsieur Sylvain explained, with courteous ban- 
ter. “ The young lady is kind enough to pose for 
me as my Vestal Virgin in Spring. This picture 
here.” He pointed to it. “ She has merely provided 
a few flowers to bedeck the Spring with them.” 

“I suppose there will be no sitting to-day?” 
asked Angiolina, in her usual distant, suspicious 
manner. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


121 


‘‘ Certainly, — ^have patience a short time. Mean- 
while, he kind enough to arrange the flowers ; you 
know that no one understands it so well. Madame 
Yintair, did I not hear that your daughter wished 
to devote herself to painting ? My friend Ferrars 
asked me recently if there would he room in my 
studio. Of course there is room for your daughter, 
Madame Yintair ; had there not been, I would 
have made it. "With whom have you studied, 
miss ?” 

At the Kensington Art School.’’ 

‘‘ Could you show me any of your work ?” 

‘‘ I brought a portfolio of sketches, — perhaps 
you will send the model down for them,” replied 
Mary Winter, with a side-glance towards Angiolina. 

The Italian frowned angrily and drew herself 
up haughtily. 

Why, Mary!” exclaimed Jack; and, as Mon- 
sieur Sylvain looked somewhat perplexed, the 
young Englishman instantly added, “Permit me 
to get the portfolio.” 

When, laden with Mary’s masterpieces. Jack 
returned to the studio, he suddenly felt something 
like a caress on his cheek, and involuntarily looked 
up. It was Angiolina’s eyes resting warmly and 
gratefully on him. 

“ What a strange man !^’ said Mary, after she 
had left the studio and entered the carriage with 
her companions. “ He may he a great artist,” she 
added slowly, with the precision of a person who 
is conscious of a new discovery, “ but he is not a 
gentleman.” 


11 


122 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


A leaden silence followed. Mrs. Winter averted 
her face, — Jack was angry. Why should his poor 
old aunt be forced to feel ashamed of her vanished 
dream ? But Mary did not cease. “ I believe,’^ 
she went on, ‘‘ that he is not very fastidious about 
his society. Who was that queer woman who 
glided out when we entered ?” 

“I believe it was the housekeeper,” Jack an- 
swered, imperturbably. 

“But she addressed him so familiarly,” said 
Mary. 

“It’s the custom among artists,” Jack menda- 
ciously replied. 

Mrs. Winter had flushed scarlet and clasped her 
hands with a firmer pressure. After a reflective 
pause Mary remarked, “ I consider Monsieur Syl- 
vain an excellent teacher and will try to profit as 
much as possible from his instruction, but it seems 
advisable to restrict personal intercourse with him 
to the very minimum.” 

After the three had returned to the Hotel Cas- 
tiglione, Mary invited her cousin to do a little 
shopping with her. She wanted to purchase some 
artist’s materials in order to press forward ener- 
getically the next morning on her artistic career. 
Jack’s obliging offer to supply everything if she 
would tell him what she needed for the present was 
refused, — she wanted to make the purchases her- 
self So he marched patiently at her side from 
one shop to another, though with no very com- 
fortable sensations. Mary’s low, courteous voice 
pitilessly criticised all the goods and beat down the 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


123 


prices. She always carefully added up the hills 
herself, thereby ascertaining that once an error of 
five centimes had been made in her favor, and 
another time a mistake of ten centimes to her 
injury. This was all very correct ; but Jack drew 
a long breath of relief when he regained the hotel 
with her. 

The palms had been freshly watered ; the whole 
court-yard was redolent of damp foliage and damp 
asphalt. Mrs. Winter sat under the red striped 
awning, a hook which she was not reading lying 
in her lap. She nodded pleasantly to Jack, and, 
while Mary went up-stairs to dress for dinner, the 
young man sat down by her side. 

‘‘ How silent and thoughtful you are to-day !” he 
said, taking her hand in his. 

He knew what was passing in her mind, but he 
wished to induce her to speak of it ; he imagined 
it might be a relief. 

“ My dear boy, I have buried an illusion to-day,” 
she said, with her pleasant smile. “ It is always a 
sorrowful task, especially at my time of life, when 
illusions no longer grow again.” 

Jack^s only reply was lightly to stroke the old 
lady’s hand, — the poor old hand which had already 
grown cold and, even on this lovely spring even- 
ing, trembled in his warm young fingers. 

The old lady was also silent. After a short time 
she raised her head, saying, Hold your life sacred, 
my boy, that you may not be obliged to sufier the 
humiliation of a worthless old age.” 


124 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


The Winters had been a week in Paris. They 
had left the Hotel Castiglione, of course, not with- 
out a protest from Mary concerning the bill, and 
an assurance that, under the circumstances, she 
would give no one in the hotel a fee. Yet the 
servants had not suffered, Mrs. Winter having 
secretly scattered a shower of twenty-franc pieces 
over the whole retinue. The mother and daughter 
were now occupying a suite of apartments in the 
Champs Elysfees, a suite which contained a very 
brown dining-room, a very bright drawing-room, 
a boudoir, and three or four dull bed-chambers. 

The whole lodgings were redolent of the Eng- 
lish tourist ; they were cold and cheerless, and too 
large for the needs of the Winter family. Mary 
Winter perceived the latter fact, but comforted 
herself with the belief that the rooms were very 
cheap, and offered Jack the use of one of them, 
which he declined. 

Usually the apartments were empty ten hours 
out of the twenty-four. Mrs. Winter fled from their 
stifthess as much as she could, and Mary devoted 
herself enthusiastically to her new object in life. In 
the course of this one week she had daubed every 
conceivable object on canvas, her greatest triumph, 
so far, being two tomatoes beside a box of sardines. 

Monsieur Sylvain had said of this performance, 
“ Mais je ne deteste pas cela !” On this praise Mary 
had resolved to have her sketch framed. 

“ He praises so rarely that even a very slight 
expression of approval pleases me extremely,’’ 
Mary said to her cousin when requesting him to 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


125 


order tlie frame for her. She had at last relin- 
quished her plan of doing all her shopping with 
him, principally because she encountered vigorous 
opposition to it ; hut to make amends she was now 
fond of asking him for little favors. He prom- 
ised to order the frame on condition “ that she 
would not dispute the hill.” This jesting intima- 
tion, which she was clever enough to understand, 
made her flush crimson. “Jack, you are unjust 
to laugh at me. If I examine the hills closely it is 
from principle, not avarice. I can’t bear disorder.” 

“ And you are right, Mary ; take me as a warn- 
ing. This is the result of never reckoning ex- 
penses. I shall soon he borrowing a hundred 
francs from you.” 

“ Certainly, Jack; why not a thousand!” Mary 
exclaimed, almost eagerly. How it was Jack’s 
turn to blush. 

“ Why, Mary 1” he answered, reproachfully, yet 
shamed and a little touched. 

The offer had been a trifle lacking in taste, hut 
it had come straight from the heart. Mary Winter 
had unconsciously laid her hand on Jack’s arm as 
she made the exclamation, and, when he lifted it, 
he kissed her fingers. Then closing the conversa- 
tion, he went off to order the frame, murmuring 
under his breath, “I certainly misjudged my 
cousin ; at first I believed her merely a frog. 1 
discovered long ago that there was a hedgehog in 
the frog; perhaps within the hedgehog there may 
be a woman.” 

He did not dwell long upon the problem; he 
11 * 


126 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


had far more important and interesting matters 
to occupy his thoughts. Angiolina’s glance, that 
hard-won, warm, grateful glance, would not vanish 
from his mind. Above everything else in the 
world he desired to make her acquaintance ! Why 
should he not simply go up to her little attic room 
and tap at the door? Would he have been sent 
away ? Poor, foolish J ack ! Like so many another 
idealist, he avoided, by the most studied circumlo- 
cution, a goal which lay close before him. 

It was late afternoon in the early part of May. 
The air was warm and fragrant. It was the season 
when every form of plant-life tries to grow upward 
from earth towards heaven, while the human race 
droops feebly earthward. Even Jack felt some- 
thing of the spring languor in his long limbs, — 
something of the lassitude which at times arises 
from great happiness, as he strolled aimlessly 
through the Pue de la Rochefoucauld, thinking 
of Angiolina. 

Twilight was beginning to gather ; the sales- 
women in front of the second-hand clothing-shops, 
which here form the principal percentage of the 
stores, were beginning to pack up their wares, 
most of which were scattered over the sidewalks. 
And such wares! Mattresses, old beds, Louis 
Quinze clocks, old keys, the red jacket of a 
Daughter of the Regiment, long since hissed oif 
the stage, and worn-out kitchen utensils. An 
elderberry-bush thrust its flower-laden branches 
over an old wall covered with dirt and placards. 
Its fragrance mingled with the odor of hot stones 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


127 


and the fumes rising from the cellar windows of a 
cheap cook-shop. Large and small dogs, appar- 
ently stray curs, with tongues hanging thirstily from 
their mouths, swarmed here, snuffing for hones and 
remnants of food, evidently not in vain. While 
Jack was watching them he thought of Constanti- 
nople and laughed. Suddenly he perceived a huge 
beast running* after a tall woman dressed in black. 
Unfortunately, she quickened her pace, the animal 
pursued her, seized her by the dress, and threw her 
on the ground, standing over her with outspread 
limbs. J ack sprang at the brute, seized it by the 
collar, and pushed it aside. The dog, which hith- 
erto had shown no signs of ill nature, now resisted, 
making every effort to bite Jack’s wrist; it was no 
easy matter for the young Englishman to cope with 
him. Stand up!” he shouted to the woman, who 
still lay prostrate on the ground. ‘‘ I can’t hold the 
creature by the collar forever.” 

She was lying with her head against the pave- 
ment, having evidently chosen this position to pro- 
tect her face from the brute’s attack. The lines 
of her figure and of the arm outstreched beside 
her head were matchless in beauty. A thick knot 
of half-loosened dark hair rested on her neck. 

Could it Just at that moment she raised her 

head; Angiolina’s eyes looked up at Jack from a 
white, frightened face. He dealt the struggling 
cur a blow on the head which dazed the animal, 
and two workmen took charge of him. J ack bent 
over Angiolina. ‘‘ For heaven’s sake,” he cried, 
“ tell me ! are you hurt ?” 


128 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


she answered; “it was only fright. I 
thank you, I thank you with all my heart.” 

“ There is nothing for which to thank me. I 
should have ” He hesitated. 

She smiled, with a charmingly mischievous ex- 
pression. 

“Yes, what you have done for me you would 
have done for any one else,” she said, completing 
the sentence. 

“ But you know that I would have done it for 
no one with so much pleasure,” Jack answered. 

Then Angiolina tried to rise, but in vain; she 
had sprained her ankle in running. 

“How terrible!” he exclaimed. “I’ll get a 
carriage.” 

“ It is not necessary,” she replied ; “ I am close 
by my own door.” 

“At least permit me to help you,” he said, 
timidly, — with the timidity which always flatters 
women as the deepest homage. 

She smiled at him. They had suddenly become 
aware that they had known each other a long time, 
— a very long time. Jack raised her ; she could 
scarcely walk, — he dragged her along. 

The house where she lived really did stand close 
by. It was a tall, narrow building with rickety 
gray blinds, the ground-floor occupied by a third- 
rate yarn and trimming store with a show-window 
whose small panes were set in red wood, and be- 
hind which were displayed the most impossible 
bonnets, caps, and night-sacks, — a shop that seemed 
to belong to some very small provincial town, yet 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


129 


whose counterparts are always seen in Paris within 
a stone’s throw of the large establishments. The 
proprietor of this shop — mer eerie is the name such 
places bear in Paris — had rented a little room to 
the Marchesina. 

The door of the house — ^it had no gate-way — 
stood open ; a close, heavy atmosphere floated out. 

“ So it is here ?” Jack asked. 

“Yes.” 

“ In which story ?” 

“ The fifth.” 

“ You can’t walk; may I carry you up ?” 

Angiolina did not answer ; but when he lifted 
her in his arms she placed hers around his neck. 
He carried her as carefully as a mother would tend 
her child. She was no light burden, but he did 
not feel her weight. 

Every pulse throbbed with rapture. Her head 
was resting on his shoulder, her eyes were closed, 
her face was deadly pale, only the lips were crim- 
son. A wild longing to press his own upon them 
took possession of him. His brain reeled. 

How he was on the narrow landing before her 
door, which opened directly upon the staircase. 

“ There is the key,” said Angiolina. 

Jack opened the door and carried her across the 
threshold. 

Twilight had already begun to render the out- 
lines of every object indistinct; yet, on entering 
the little room. Jack received the impression 
of something inexpressibly touching, charming, 
despite its poverty. The odor of fresh flowers 


130 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


greeted him. In one corner of the room stood 
her little bed, — a narrow iron bed. He laid her 
on it. 

“ ril send some one up to you at once/^ he said, 
hastily. 

Angiolina silently nodded. 

He lingered a moment, — he expected her to say 
something. Perhaps 

But she did not speak. He kissed her hand 
and left the room. 

When he had closed the door behind him it 
seemed as if he heard her sob. 

Jack had a violent attack of industry. He now 
worked several hours every day at a study in the 
Park Monceau. A few of his artist acquaintances 
had discovered him thus occupied and made a 
tremendous ado over his sketch, — nothing save a 
bit of sunlight shining through the scanty leafage 
of early spring, and glimmering on a patch of 
green turf. But how warm and full of life the 
sunlight was, and what a strong breeze stirred the 
foliage ! Jack was still very clumsy; in executing 
his work he sometimes lacked the most elementary 
tricks of art; hut he possessed one thing which 
many an artist distinguished by various medals, 
who for years had had the right to decorate his 
picture-frames with H. C., might have envied : the 
art of animating everything his brush touched. 
This magic power, which separates the God-gifted 
artist from the artisan. Providence had bestowed 
upon him in his cradle. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


131 


The artists — ^who, as is well known, are appre- 
ciative of the work of their colleagues — all lav- 
ished their favorite epithets upon Jack’s perform- 
ance, called it crane and drole ; naj, in addition to 
this, the American art-dealer whose demand had 
been hanging over Jack’s head like the sword of 
Damocles declared himself ready to resign his 
claim to the marine pictures in favor of this Park 
Monceau study on condition that J ack would con- 
vert it into a picture by the addition of some pretty 
figures. He had asked Monsieur Sylvain to ad- 
vise him concerning this addition, and the latter 
had promised to come to the park expressly to see 
the marvel of a study,” in which, thanks to the 
great outcry made by the artists, he was cordially 
interested. 

Jack had expected him the day before, impa- 
tiently and vainly ; to-day he did not even think 
of him. His study absorbed him entirely. 

TonnerreT^ he suddenly heard some one ex- 
claim behind him, and, turning, saw Monsieur 
Sylvain. 

With a throbbing heart Jack awaited the mas- 
ter’s criticism. 

Monsieur Sylvain drew down the corners of his 
mouth. “H’m! So this is the famous study!” 
he began, caustically. H’m ! h’m 1” 

“ "V^at do you say to it ?” asked Jack, de- 
jectedly. 

What shall I say ?— it’s very green,” grumbled 
Sylvain. ‘‘ But that seems to be the fashion now. 
You follow the fashion, — you are right.” 


132 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


He paused, then soon after sat down before the 
study on the stool from which Jack had started at 
the master’s appearance. Give me your palette.” 

Jack handed it to him, whereupon Monsieur 
Sylvain pitilessly began to extinguish the sunshine 
with heavy asphalt tones, while poor J ack looked 
on helplessly. 

Suddenly Sylvain glanced up from his work of 
destruction and, pushing his hat farther back than 
usual, he asked, bluntly, ‘‘Deuce take it, Ferrars, 
why don’t you marry your cousin ?” 

“ Does my study present so melancholy a proof 
of my lack of talent that you want to force a life- 
preserver upon me?” asked Jack, not without 
irritation. 

“ There can he no doubt of your talent,” replied 
Sylvain ; then, with a gesture towards the study, 
he added : “ Personally I have no special taste for 
lettuce, but, if lettuce is wanted, it must he owned 
that yours is specially fresh and juicy. You have 
something in your stroke, in the way of putting 
on the colors, which cannot be learned. But, my 
dear fellow, you will never accomplish anything 
more, and therefore I ask again. Why don’t you 
marry your cousin ? She is very pretty.” 

“ The magnetic attraction is lacking,” Jack an- 
swered, with a rather clumsy effort to jest. 

Monsieur Sylvain looked him sharply in the eye. 
“ That is, you don’t feel it ; and your cousin ?” 

“ I am completely ignorant of my cousin’s feel- 
ings,” replied Jack. 

“H’m! really! Of the feelings of a cousin 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


133 


who comes to Paris to learn to paint because she 
has a cousin there who also paints !” 

‘‘You have invented the because^ Monsieur Sjl- 
vain,” Jack answered, somewhat harshly. 

“ 1^0, 1 discovered it,” replied the Frenchman ; 
“hut don’t take the trouble to get angry. I 
understand you. I know that, in some cases, a 
man’s delicacy forbids him to be sharp-sighted. 
H’m ! In short, you — don’t care for your cousin.” 

“ I feel the highest esteem for her.” 

“ That is enough.” 

“ Confound it !” Jack retorted, somewhat hotly, 
“ esteem is necessary, but esteem alone cannot be- 
stow happiness. Esteem, if I may so express it, is 
the skeleton of love. The nobler the skeleton, the 
more secure, the more permanent, the beauty of the 
feeling. But imagine a love that is nothing except 
bones. Cupid as a skeleton, — horrible ! I always 
imagine him a curly-headed little rogue with plenty 
of dimples.” 

“ That idea is like mine,” Monsieur Sylvain 
acknowledged ; “ but I have already told you that, 
in my opinion, the little rogue has not much to do 
with marriage.” 

“ I beg leave to have a different opinion.” 

“ Indeed — really — h’m ! — I’m sorry for you,” 
said Monsieur Sylvain, shrugging his shoulders. 

“ And why ?” 

“ Because you are an incorrigible idealist, and 
your idealism will always meddle in matters with 
which it has nothing to do. Stop,” — he leaned 
back a little, — “I’ve spoiled your picture. Your 
12 


134 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


way of looking at nature doesn’t agree with mine. 
Wipe the mustard-sauce off the salad ! And fare- 
well for a while.” 

‘‘ But you were going to advise me about the 
figures,” Jack said, dispiritedly. 

“ About the figures The nearest sugges- 

tion is always the best,” replied Monsieur Sylvain, 
grandiloquently. “ Look around you !” With 
these words he hobbled off. 

Jack looked around him for a suggestion. 

A married couple sat close beside him. The 
man thin and haggard, with a limp straw hat and 
trousers far too -short for him, which crept up above 
the gaiter-shoes bulging out around his ankles, 
was holding a large illustrated volume open on 
his knees; the wife, considerably his senior, had 
no front teeth; her thin light hair was brushed 
smoothly hack ; her dress was neat, though shabby, 
and she was evidently the more oppressed by anx- 
iety of the two. She sat by his side darning un- 
derclothing, while a pale, rickety child played in 
the sand at her feet. A large plane-tree, whose 
foliage was still transparent, cast its shade over the 
trio. 

Jack knew these people, — ^they came every day. 
The man was a clerk who had lost his place three 
months before. He spent his leisure time in study- 
ing the literature of George Sand, which had 
become very cheap, especially at the antiquarian 
hook-stores. 

This was no group for Jack’s picture. A little 
farther away sat two mulatto women with very 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


135 


bright kerchiefs, one in a green, the other in a yel- 
low gown. Both were knitting, knitting so rapidly 
that instead of needles one saw in their hands 
merely a grayish-blue glitter. Three elaborately- 
dressed children were playing near them. Then 
came a nurse dressed in red from head to foot; 
then a police-officer in a blue coat with shining 
buttons. Then he saw Luca Canini, whom he 
had ordered to come at a certain hour to carry 
his luggage back. Jack laid down his palette, 
gave Luca his directions, said a few pleasant words 
to the impoverished married couple, and left the 
park. He had no engagement for the evening and 
wondered what to do with his leisure. He longed 
to leave the houses behind him and go somewhere 
into the country. His long limbs bore him swiftly 
across the Champs Elysees to the nearest landing- 
place of the “ Hirondelle.” The ship was just 
starting ; he went on board, took a seat with his 
back to the guards, and enjoyed the warm mist 
rising from the Seine and the soft, grayish-green 
silvery coloring of the landscape on the left bank. 
It was not yet a real country landscape, only a 
vanishing suburb, a few rows of puny, transparent 
trees, principally poplars, behind which glimmered 
the dazzling white, the unbroken orange-red of 
freshly roofed new buildings, — a whirlwind of lime- 
dust, heaps of bricks and sand, trampled grass, 
and in the background the sea of houses of Paris, 
towering in a labyrinth of outlines from amid a 
violet chaos, amid which glimmered and sparkled 
a fairy-like vision: the ball of the dome of the 


136 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


Invalides, steeped in the radiance of the westering 
sun. 

The passengers on the “ Hirondelle” belonged 
to the lowest class of the Parisian populace. But 
Jack was not one of the persons who turn up 
their noses at the commonplace character of their 
surroundings when they pay twenty cents for a 
trip on an excursion steamer. On the contrary, 
he rejoiced that so many people could enjoy a 
pleasant afternoon for so little money. Only it 
was disagreeable to have his left-hand neighbor 
eat sausages strongly flavored with garlic, and his 
right-hand one smoke a very malodorous pipe and 
spit with great regularity. 

He looked for another seat, and came upon a 
group of intelligent but dingy-looking women, 
whom he instantly recognized as female art-stu- 
dents from the left bank of the Seine. They were 
all gazing intently in the same direction. Follow- 
ing their eyes, Jack perceived a famous historical 
painter, with a handsome Spanish face, who, evi- 
dently perfectly aware of the impression he made 
upon the girls, was looking away from them and, 
leaning idly against the guards, posed as a blase 
beau tenehreux. 

The sight of the art-students affected Jack more 
unpleasantly than the society of the unattractive 
common people from which he had fled. They all 
looked so downcast, so physically and morally 
famished. He turned from the human beings to 
the shore, which was now becoming more and 
more beautiful. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


137 


What luxuriant meadows ! the grass growing 
knee-high in lush verdure, interspersed with flow- 
ers, stretched down to the very edge of the river, 
where it mingled with a net-work of white and 
yellow water-lilies. What willows, gigantic, fully 
developed, glimmering with a silvery hue, their 
pliant branches dipping into the waves! and be- 
hind them other trees, tall, slender elms and ashes, 
the outlines of their branches edged with a line 
of gold and steeped in the sunny spring vapor. 
Yes, this was lovely, this was charming. Jack’s 
eyes sought a spot where he could begin his next 
study, and noticed a foot-path glimmering whitely 
through the rich meadow-grass, which led to a 
little wood. Two young people were walking 
down it. An indescribable feeling stole over Jack. 
He suddenly seemed to experience increased vi- 
tality, a pleasant warmth and restlessness. 

He looked up, — the art-students had disap- 
peared; Angiolina was sitting opposite to him. 
Jack crimsoned. Then his eyes met the Italian’s ; 
a great wave of joy mingled with embarrassment 
surged over him ; he raised his hat. She smiled, 
and, without knowing what he was doing or even 
that he did it, he rose and went to her. Angiolina 
kindly extended her hand. He raised it to his lips 
and sat down by her side. 

‘‘ Are you no longer angry with me ?” he asked, 
smiling pleasantly. 

Why should I be ?” she said. “ On the con- 
trary, I am very grateful.” 

“ For what ?” he asked. 

12 * 


138 


A LEAFLESS SPRING, 


‘‘ For what Angiolina repeated, looking up 
at him. What eyes she had ! Her glance thrilled 
every nerve. “ For saving me from that vicious 
dog ; for inquiring about my health so kindly and 
providing me with amusement during the time 
that I was confined to my room; for the hooks 
and flowers which you have sent me ; for — doing 
what you have done.’’ 

“ I had much for which to atone,” he murmured. 

She gazed intently at him. “Yes, on account 
of that insult. Well, you really were not so much 
to blame for making the blunder. But it humbled 
me so. You will not believe me, but it was the 
first time a stranger ever ventured to speak to 
me.” 

“ Hot believe you ! Why shouldn’t I believe 
you? I believe everything you say to me,” Jack 
eagerly protested ; “ and I am not surprised. The 
only thing which amazes me is that I could have 
been so insolent. Have you forgiven me?” He 
spoke so warmly, so earnestly, that the tone would 
have melted a lump of ice. 

“ Must I tell you so ?” she asked. 

“Yes, tell me; it would afford me so much 
pleasure to hear you say it,” he urged. 

“ You act like a child begging for a bonbon,” 
replied the Marchesina. 

“ I am begging for a bonbon,” Jack answered, 
quietly. “ Have you forgiven me ? Then tell me 
so !” He held out his hand. 

She placed hers in it. “Yes, for aught I care, — 
I have forgiven you,” she said. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


139 


Her voice sounded weary. She was even paler 
than usual, but there was greater warmth in the 
pallor ; her lips were a richer scarlet, and looked 
fuller than usual. A strange, subdued radiance 
sparkled in her half-closed eyes. It seemed as if 
she was thinking of something, asking herself a 
question. Jack was so absorbed in gazing at her 
that he forgot to talk. 

It was Angiolina who first broke the silence. 
“ You must think me very fanciful,” she said, after 
a pause. 

He did not clearly understand her. 

‘‘ I mean in my behavior to the artists,” she 
added. 

‘‘You do make things rather hard for them,” he 
said, half smiling. 

“Yes, hut I can do nothing else ; it is difiicult 
to choose exactly the right course. If you knew 
how hard it is to maintain a little dignity in my 
position, you would not wonder at my rudeness.” 

“I wonder at nothing,” he eagerly protested, 
“ except — that you are in this position, which is 
not suited to you.” 

Angiolina frowned. Jack felt that he had 
touched a very sore spot. He was sorry to have 
wounded her, strove to find something to say, but 
in vain. It was she who began : 

“ What is a poor, uneducated woman to do to 
earn her bread ?” she inquired. 

“You do not give the impression of an unedu- 
cated woman,” he replied. 

Angiolina smiled, — his words evidently pleased 


140 A LEAFLESS SPRING. 

her ; then, shrugging her shoulders, she said, in her 
deep, pleasant voice, the voice which always re- 
called the tone of old Italian violins, ‘‘Yet it is 
true ; I lack almost every detail of the education 
which a poor girl needs to make life easier ; of the 
culture which, on the other hand, serves to make 
her lot still harder, I possess a tolerable share.” 

There was a subtlety in the ^remark which sur- 
prised Jack. The mystery surrounding her deep- 
ened. 

A slight flush had tinged her cheeks, her face 
expressed stern, almost angry pride. She drew 
herself up as if to shake off a burden which had 
oppressed her for years, then continued : “ What 
have I learned? To speak French, a smattering 
of English, just enough skill in playing the piano 
to accompany a little song, and — to reckon up to 
a hundred, and take care of my hands. I cannot 
spell any language correctly, and — ^the rest of my 
acquirements are equally worthless. Seek amid 
this treasury of knowledge any one thing by which 
five pennies can he earned.” 

“True,” Jack murmured; “hut at least the 
knowledge is unusual for ” 

“ For a model,” she said, bitterly, “ of course.” 

“It is the average amount of knowledge pos- 
sessed by a young lady.” 

“Yes,” she replied, “the knowledge of a con- 
tessina, who is expected at seventeen to marry a 
wealthy husband and do nothing all the rest of 
her life except to revise the menus her cook pre- 
sents, wear beautiful gowns, and please fashionable 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 141 

men. That is the object for which I was reared, — 
and yet — ^you know my life !” 

‘‘ It is terrible !” Jack murmured, compassion- 
ately. ‘‘ And can nothing be done, — can no one 
help you ?” 

‘‘ Help !” She uttered the word in a tone so 
weary, so hopeless, that it pierced the young 
man’s heart. “ Help ! What help can he given ? 
I try to get whatever solace is possible ; I read a 
great deal. Once I took lessons in French and 
English; but then — well, then I said to myself, 
what could I accomplish even if I supplied the 
greatest defects in my education ? The utmost 
would be a position as sub-teacher in a boarding- 
school. And even that — who can tell ? Just think, 
— a girl who has been a model ! I have given up 
that idea ; I am submitting to my fate. Although 
my life is not brilliant, it is bearable, — the work is 
not hard, the payment is good. I am indepen- 
dent. I can go to the theatre often ; now and 
then I have a pleasant chat with the artists, from 
whom I earn my bread. Besides, I have succeeded 
in securing from them the kind of treatment I 
desire. It was no easy matter, but I have accom- 
plished it.” She threw her head back proudly. 

“ I believe in the eighth wonder of the world 
since I have known you, Marchesina,” Jack mur- 
mured ; and added, in a low tone, “ If you knew 
how I long to kneel at your feet,— how touching 
and sacred a woman like you is to a man.” 

Angiolina gazed at him with a strange expres- 
sion ; suddenly her eyes grew very gloomy, a bitter, 


142 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


almost disagreeable expression hovered around her 
lips. 

‘‘ Perhaps not quite so sacred as you suppose/’ 
she murmured ; “ it is merely because I shrink 
from it all.” 

The words pierced Jack’s soul like an ugly dis- 
cord; they did not suit the image he had formed of 
the Marchesina, and they came from the girl’s lips as 
if rising from a gulf of repulsive experiences. But 
his discomfort lasted only a moment ere it was for- 
gotten. He was too deeply in love for it to linger. 

Angiolina drew a long breath of intense enjoy- 
ment as her eyes wandered over the green shore 
of the Seine. “ How beautiful life might be !” she 
murmured. 

The steamer stopped. “ Meudon !” some one 
shouted, ‘‘Bas-Meudon!” 

Angiolina rose. 

‘‘ Are you going to leave the boat here ?” asked 
Jack. 

“I had no definite purpose,” she replied. “I 
merely wanted to breathe the spring air somewhere 
outside of Paris. But this is a very pretty place, — 
just see !” She pointed to a row of small, old- 
fashioned houses, almost all adorned with wooden 
balconies and half buried in blooming glycine. 

‘‘ I should like to stop here,” she said ; ‘‘ I should 
enjoy walking across these meadows and into yon- 
der wood.” While speaking, she went towards 
the gangway of the boat. 

‘‘ May I come too ?” asked Jack, timidly, behind 
her. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 143 

She only glanced back at him over her shoulder 
with a smile. 

The soft fading hues of a spring evening, melt- 
ing slowly into a violet-gray fog, were already 
hovering over the meadows when the pair — Jack 
and Angiolina — returned from their walk to the 
primitive little town. Although the smile with 
which she had permitted him to accompany her 
had seemed like a challenge, not the faintest ad- 
vance towards familiarity had been made by Jack 
during the long walk across the silent, lonely 
meadows and through the shady, whispering grove. 

Was this due to his companion or to him ? 
Probably mainly to him, to the indestructible ideal- 
ism with which he viewed the situation. 

He had wandered at her side almost in silence 
through the slowly dying twilight, the warm, 
caressing atmosphere of spring. Mute, with the 
reflective speechlessness of a gradually maturing 
resolution. 

She, too, had said very little ; only a few words 
now and then as she laughed about the bouquet of 
flowers, which grew larger and larger in her hands. 

When its proportions became too enormous, he 
took it from her. She gathered another. And 
now the sun had set, a chill, damp breeze swept 
across the meadow. They bent their steps towards 
the little town. 

“ How hungry I am Angiolina exclaimed. 

Jack turned towards her. ‘‘ Will you have sup- 
per here he asked. 


144 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


“ It would be charming,” she said, quickly. 

They chose the most inviting glycine-embowered 
balcony of the modest inns on the primitive quay, 
with a view of the Seine. There they sat down 
on a tiny veranda, whose roof was formed really 
only by a wooden balcony jutting out above it. It 
had already grown so dark that the lamps were 
lighted. 

While they were awaiting the little repast se- 
lected by Jack with the utmost care, Angiolina 
arranged the flowers. 

A thick garland of heavy clusters of glycine fell 
over the lower edge of the balcony; the flowers 
grew in close clusters, interrupted by a tangle of 
light-green leafage. Both foliage and blossoms 
looked strangely pale in the flickering light of the 
lamps fastened against the wall of the house. The 
pair inhaled the damp breath of the river, saturated 
with the acrid odor of the young leaves, the scent 
of freshly-hewn logs, which lay in great piles on 
the quay, and the faint sweetness of the glycine. 
They heard the low plash of the waves against the 
shore, the rustling of the trees in the adjacent 
wood, while with these sounds blended the melody 
of a song sung by several voices, — one of those 
monotonous French ballads with a refrain in a 
minor key. Lads and lassies strolled arm in arm 
along the quay, jesting and whispering together, 
moving in the direction whence came, now more 
faintly, anon louder, the melancholy song, ‘‘ Qu’as- 
tu fait, qu’as-tu fait de ta jeunesse ?” 

Angiolina had stopped arranging her flowers 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


145 


and was listening. Then stepping forward, she 
bent her head to hear more distinctly. 

It seemed to Jack that never in his whole life 
had he beheld anything more beautiful than the 
young Italian as she stood with her pallid, yearn- 
ing face beneath the waving bunches of lilac blos- 
soms, and he also told himself how lamentably 
Armand Sylvain’s old-fashioned art was baffled by 
the problem of this beauty. 

“ Ah, if only I might paint a picture of you !” 
he said, softly, approaching her. 

“ Then why don’t you ?” she asked, looking up 
at him. 

“ Would you sit for me ?” 

“ Whenever you wish.” 

‘‘ Keally ! How happy you make me !” He 
clasped her hand and pressed his lips upon it. 
She withdrew it, though she smiled, the slow, 
mournful smile which was always accompanied 
by downcast lids. It gave her face an almost 
magical charm. 

What hour shall we appoint for the first 
sitting ?” asked Jack. 

“ It is for Monsieur to command ; the poor model 
will submit to his wishes,” replied Angiolina, 
jestingly. 

‘‘ Are you no longer engaged by Sylvain ?” 

‘‘Ho. Monsieur Sylvain finished with me long 
ago. During the last week he has been painting 
the spring into his picture. At first I brought him 
fresh fiowers to lend it a little life. But the green 
confused him, and finally he copied the whole 
Q k 13 


146 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


array of vernal blossoms from^ heap of old dusty 
artificial flowers with which he decorated his studio 
for an artists’ ball twenty years ago, and has kept 
ever since in a pasteboard box with faded German 
favors and torn silk socks. You can imagine the 
spring.” 

Jack laughed. How pleasant it was to talk with 
her, how bright and amusing she was, — a girl in 
such a position ! 

Just at that moment a waiter set a golden-hued 
omelette on the table. 

They took their seats opposite to each other. 
Angiolina was really hungry, but she was as grace- 
ful in eating as in everything else. Hunger suited 
her charmingly. The omelette was followed by 
roast chicken and lettuce. Jack carved the chicken 
and helped his bewitching guest. He himself 
scarcely touched a mouthful. 

“ One more little bit,” he urged, coaxingly, 
lifting a wing of the chicken. 

‘‘ Ho, no ! Hothing more now,” she replied. 
‘‘But how delicious it was ! And how pleasant it 
was to be able to talk while I was eating ! Ah, 
if you knew the dreariness of simply devouring a 
beefsteak or a chop alone, or during the intermis- 
sion of a sitting in the society of an artist from 
whom ” 

The surging and dashing of the waves announced 
the approach of the steamer from Sevres. 

Angiolina rose. “ It is growing late.” 

“We haven’t arranged any hour yet,” said Jack. 

“ I cannot come to-morrow.” 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


147 


“ The day after, then ?” He gazed beseechingly 
at her. 

‘‘We will see.” She smiled at him, at the 
same time taking her bunch of flowers. 

“Aha! I congratulate you!” cried a deep, 
gruff voice. 

J ack looked up and saw Armand Sylvain with 
an acquaintance whom the young Englishman had 
made in Cayeux, the journalist Rambert, who had 
just stepped upon the little veranda. 

Both gentlemen were smiling cynically ; a scorn- 
ful expression disfigured the old artist’s face, which 
was flushed with excitement. 

“ Monsieur Sylvain !” cried Jack, “ how can you 
allow yourself ” 

“Allow myself to do what? Keep my eyes 
open ? It was an accident, my dear fellow, an 
accident. If anybody had warned me in time, I 
would have shut them or turned my head away, 
though it would have been a pity, for you made 
a very pretty picture. Love is always becoming 
to a beautiful woman, — one can’t say quite as 
much for men, who generally look rather stupid 
under such circumstances ; but item ” 

“Monsieur Sylvain!” cried Jack again; then 
he interrupted himself to look for Angiolina. 

“ You will seek her in vain,” said the journalist; 
“ she went on board the steamer and is already on 
her way to Paris. It will be half an hour ere you 
can follow her.” 

“ At present I am less anxious to do that than to 
explain to you how I have happened to expose a 


148 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


perfectly blameless girl to unwarrantable suspicions 
by my selfish thoughtlessness. I swear to you ” 

‘‘ Swear nothing,’’ replied Kambert; “ you would 
prove very little by doing so, for we all know that 
there are cases where perjury is a point of honor. 
Only, don’t you think it is carrying matters a 
little too far, — for a model ? The affair is normal, 
perfectly normal.” 

While speaking he laid his hand kindly on Jack’s 
shoulder. But the latter shook it rudely off. 

“ I have borne enough!” he cried, stamping his 
foot angrily. ‘‘ As neither of you choose to believe 
me, I will take no further trouble to assure you 
that I have not exchanged a word of love with 
Angiolina. But one thing I will tell you : should 
she accept the offer of my hand, she will become 
my wife. There ! And now I have the honor to 
bid you both good-evening.” 

After this significant remark Jack raised his hat 
and marched with long strides into the darkness. 

Rambert and Sylvain took possession of the 
table which Jack and Angiolina had just left. 

Rambert began to whistle; Armand Sylvain 
laughed, harshly, bitterly. At last, striking the 
table with both clinched fists, he exclaimed, “ The 
deuce I What do you say to that ?” 

“ I think, as I have already said, that the affair 
is perfectly normal,” replied Rambert, humorously. 

‘‘Oh, yes, normal, normal! But did you ever 
conceive of such an affected, pretentious piece as 
that Italian creature is ! So sanctimonious ! What 
does it mean ?” 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


149 


‘‘ It means that she took no fancy to either of 
replied Rambert, coolly. 

The night air grew damper and cooler, the scent 
of the spring foliage more acrid. The lapping and 
plashing of the waves and the rustling of the 
trees in the neighboring wood still echoed from 
the distance, and blending with it in wailing notes 
indistinct snatches floated to their ears of the bal- 
lad with its minor refrain, “ Qu’as-tu fait, qu’as-tu 
fait de ta jeunesse 

Jack’s flrst walk the next morning of course took 
him to the Marchesina. She was not at home. 
She had an appointment with a sculptor — so the 
shop-woman on the ground-floor told him — who 
was modelling a head of Ophelia. 

The great stress laid upon the assurance that 
Angiolina had sat for the head, only for the head 
of Ophelia, annoyed Jack, as well as the fact that 
she was posing for a sculptor. Sculptors do not 
enjoy a very good reputation. 

He left the shop and strolled out into the narrow 
street, where second-hand shops in which broken 
new articles were sold for antiques alternated with 
dressmaking shops where old clothes were re- 
modelled. Every third woman he met was rouged. 

“ Was it possible that a miracle had been wrought 
in his behalf, and Angiolina had remained unsul- 
lied even in this corrupting atmosphere ?” he asked 
himself. 

About thirty paces from the house in which the 
Italian lived Rambert met him, gay as ever, clad 
13 * 


150 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


in a loose sack-coat, with a straw hat pushed some- 
what far hack on his head. 

“ Good-morning ; how are you he called. “ I 
suppose you are coming from the Marchesina, eh ? 
— if it’s a fair question, my dear fellow, if it’s a 
fair question.” 

Jack thought this careless “if it’s a fair ques- 
tion” insolent; he was vexed by the journalist’s 
familiar address, — everything annoyed him to-day. 
But, with his habitual truthfulness, he answered, 
frankly, — 

“I have been to her house. After yesterday’s 
scene, the least I could do was to seek her. She 
was not at home. She had an appointment for a 
sitting.” 

“ Yes, she is working for Boutin,” replied Ram- 
bert. Then he walked at J ack’s side for a time in 
silence. At last he began, — 

“ H’m ! Ferrars, do you still intend to offer 
yourself to Angiolina ?” 

J ack hesitated a moment, only a moment, then 
he said, very gruffly, — 

“ Of course I do.” 

“ Indeed !” remarked Rambert. 

“ Don’t try to dissuade me,” Jack cried, angrily ; 
“ it would he futile.” 

A pause ensued, then Rambert began again : 
“ It really is no concern of mine.” 

“ I think so too,” growled Jack, indignantly. 

The Frenchman smiled good-naturedly, then he 
went on : “If we see a blind man walking along 
the edge of a precipice, it really is no concern of 


A LEAFLESS SEEING. 


151 


ours, but we involuntarily stretch out a hand to 
draw him hack. I can’t help stretching out my 
hand to you, Ferrars. Whether you decide to 
marry a model or not is certainly your own alFair ; 
but don’t marry the model on false premises. 
Inquire a little more particularly into the private 
life of your inamorata.” 

“ What is there to inquire about ?” cried Jack. 
“ I did seek information in all the studios of Paris, 
in the days before she became too sacred for me to 
watch her distrustfully. I heard nothing save the 
best reports. Her conduct to me has tenfold con- 
firmed everything good which has been told me. 
She is a wonderful creature. I shall be proud if 
she accepts my hand. My only regret is that I 
cannot offer her, with my name, a brilliant destiny.” 

Jack spoke with great ardor and a little too 
much determination ; as it were, with a shade of 
defiance. He himself was perfectly aware that a 
chill was stealing over his enthusiasm. 

The Frenchman glanced keenly at him. 

“ Listen, Ferrars,” he replied. What you are 
saying is very noble and chivalrous, but it will not 
stand the test. That Angiolina’s conduct during 
her residence in Paris — which has now lasted two 
years — has been beyond reproach is undeniable. 
But what was her previous life ? I have never 
before given it a thought, now doubts press upon 
me. What was her life prior to the last two 
years ? What is the cause of her reserve ?” 

‘‘ Rambert, you are brutal ! I can’t tolerate this !” 
cried Jack. 


152 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


“ Gently, my dear fellow,” said the Frenchman, 
soothingly laying his hand upon Jack’s arm. ‘‘ You 
took no advantage of the situation at Meudon, I 
believe. But, as matters are, I think you disap- 
pointed Angiolina. She is well versed in the ways 
of the world, and knows exactly where to double a 
cape. I believed in her ; it amused me to do so. I 
assure you that we prosaic men, whose daily experi- 
ence of life forces us to he cynical, find it very re- 
freshing to be able to believe in miracles. But that 
is all over. She is not so specially virtuous, she is 
only fastidious. During these two years she has 
probably been recovering from some overwhelming 
sense of disgust, which led her to fiy from Italy. 
You have had the good fortune to please her fancy 
better than the rest of us, — that is perfectly natu- 
ral. I feel no resentment against her for liking 
you, and cordially wish you every happiness, hut 
it robs her of the halo. My dear Ferrars, don’t 
he overhasty. Why call in a priest ?” 

This was too much for Jack. He rushed im- 
petuously past the Frenchman, with his little hard 
felt hat — he had never adopted the picturesque 
head-gear of his guild — pulled low over his eyes, 
his short walking-stick under his arm, and his 
hands thrust into the pockets of his coat. 

Why was every word that Bamhert had said so 
horribly plausible ? 

The remainder of the day Jack spent alone and 
ill-humored in his studio, trying to form some sen- 
sible plan for his future. But the effort was vain. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


153 


Tie was vexed with himself, vexed with everything, 
most of all that he could reach no conclusion. 

The shadows had already grown very long when 
he went to Angiolina’s house the second time. 
Without inquiring whether she was at home or 
not, he silently ascended the stairs, with his eyes 
fixed upon vacancy. It was a horrible staircase, 
with slippery, slanting steps, winding in a dizzy 
spiral around a dark hole. 

Jack remembered how he had carried Angio- 
lina — it was scarcely a week ago — over these same 
slippery, sloping steps to her little room. He felt 
the pressure of her warm round arms about his 
neck, the faint perfume from her hair floated about 
him. Every pulse was throbbing to his very finger- 
tips. Just at that moment — what was that? — a 
sweet, wailing note floated down to him from 
above through the close, confined air of the stair- 
case, — a melancholy Italian song, which he had 
heard yesterday at Meudon, sung by a weak but 
unusually musical voice. He stopped — listened. 
Another air began ; sweet, mysterious, delightful 
as the fragrance of fiowers amid the hot breath of 
the sirocco, it floated tremulously down to him. 
He glided noiselessly up to the fifth floor. The 
door of Angiolina’s little room was ajar; he could 
look in unnoticed. She was sitting at a small 
piano, running her hands over its keys. 

The beauty of these hands was marvellous, but 
even more wonderful was the loveliness of the 
pale profile. 


154 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


Jack had paused ou the threshold, but Angiolina 
must have felt his gaze. She looked up. 

‘‘ May I come in he asked. 

‘‘ Certainly,” she answered, simply. “ I expected 
you.” 

Ere he was aware of it he was kneeling beside 
her on the hard yellow painted floor, clasping both 
her hands in his. “ Oh, my angel !” he exclaimed, 
covering them with kisses. “If you knew how 
horrible yesterday’s scene was to me, how I grieved 
over the false light in which my thoughtlessness 
had placed you !” 

“ Your thoughtlessness had placed she 

repeated, gently. “Did you really suppose that 
it had not entered my mind that such a thing 
might happen, when I remained there with you ?” 

“ Angiolina !” he cried, almost terrified, “ you 
had really reflected in advance ” 

“ Certainly,” she answered. “ I knew what peo- 
ple would say. But what do I care, — I ? So long 
as the one man whom I love thinks well of me, 
everything else is a matter of indifierence, — the 
opinion of men and the judgment of God !” 
While speaking she bent towards him and, taking 
his head between her hands, kissed him on the 
forehead. 

He threw his arms around her, clasping her 
closely to his heart. “ My bride !” he murmured, 
“ my sweet, glorious wife !” 

He felt her shiver in his hold. 

“Your wife?” she repeated, slowly, as if she 
could not trust her ears. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


155 


“ Do you imagine that I had any other thought ?” 
he whispered, tenderly, deeply agitated. 

Angiolina’s head had drooped on his shoulder, 
— she made no reply. 

Jack glanced around the little room, where 
everything was so tasteful, and to which its very 
bareness lent one charm the more. Tears sprang 
to his eyes as they wandered over the touching 
evidences of poverty visible in the decorations of 
the humble apartment. Suddenly, in the midst 
of his warm, generous emotion, stole the chill of 
cold distrust which had tortured him all day, 
creeping through every limb, and clutching his 
throat. It would not be silenced ; he must look it 
in the face, do battle with it, slay it once for all. 

My jewel,” he murmured, ‘‘ I know that you 
have lived two years in Paris under the most diffi- 
cult circumstances in which so beautiful a girl 
could he placed. Ho one even dares to utter a 
light word about you. They do not understand 
you, but they bend the knee in homage. Lina ! — 
for heaven’s sake do not he angry with me, — forgive 
me the question : Was it always so ? The words 
will not cross my lips in your presence. Let me ask 
only this : Has any man ever called you his ?” 

If he had seen her ! She had blanched to the 
very lips, with a livid pallor. Her eyes expressed 
unutterable horror and yet a longing for happiness, 
which would not he controlled. 

For an instant she hesitated, then said, harshly 
hut distinctly, “ Hever !” 

‘‘ I was sure of it ! I knew it !” Jack cried. 


156 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


exultingly, covering her face with kisses. ‘^For- 
give me ! forgive me 

She made no reply save to cling closer to him, 
returning his kisses. 

At that moment the door opened. 

Milli scusi ! Pray don’t let me disturb you,” 
cried a hoarse voice, the voice of a drunkard. J ack 
turned. He had no other thought than that some 
artist had entered to engage Angiolina for a sitting. 

But if it was an artist, he was a very disreputa- 
ble-looking fellow, and a total stranger to Jack. 
He stood framed in the door-way, a man of middle 
height, his hat, a soft, light-gray felt, very dirty, 
and encircled with a wide, greasy black band, on 
his head. Blue-black hair hung in thick locks 
around his pale face to the collar of his coat. The 
brow, eyes, and nose were unususally fine in their 
contours, with the classic beauty usually seen only 
in antique statues and among Greeks and Neapoli- 
tans ; even the mouth, which a beard and mous- 
tache twisted into points at the ends freely dis- 
played, so that the full sharply-cut lips were plainly 
visible, had a touch of majesty in its coarseness. 

The man’s clothing was shabby and almost re- 
pulsively spotted ; numerous buttons were missing 
from his coat and vest ; his shirt was yellow and 
ragged, and his trousers were tattered at the bottom. 
A faded bright red kerchief was knotted about his 
throat. He looked as dissipated as possible, — re- 
pulsively degraded, yet degraded nevertheless. No 
one would ever have numbered him among the 
lower classes. 


A LJEAFLESS SPRING. 


157 


“ Pray don^t let me disturb you/’ as Jack rose 
mechanically ; pray don’t.” He laughed cynically ; 
then turning towards the Marchesina, said, ‘‘ Lina ! 
Lina ! Pardon me ! It really was not intentional.” 

Drops of perspiration stood on Jack’s forehead. 
Had he suddenly gone mad ? With an effort he 
turned his eyes from the stranger to Angiolina, 
who sat with clasped hands and dilated eyes, an 
image of mute despair. “ Who is he ?” asked 
Jack, ‘‘ who is he ?” He fixed his tense gaze on 
Angiolina, who, burying her hands in her thick 
tresses, groaned, — 

“ My husband !” 

A moment later the young Englishman was out 
of the room. He had understood but dimly ; every 
emotion seemed paralyzed by intense loathing. 
Then he heard some one panting for breath behind 
him ; icy hands clutched him. It was Angiolina 
who had followed, calling him amid her sobs. She 
dragged herself down to the next landing at his 
side ; he could not shake her off. Once more she 
stretched her hands to him. He thrust her angrily, 
rudely back, — horror overpowered him. 

Idealists are a very dangerous species of the 
human race. Whenever any specially exaggerated 
and impossible opinion which they have formed of 
any person is shattered against the cliffs of reality, 
they straightway go just as far in their scorn of 
the poor mortal as they formerly went in their 
deification. 

For the moment not a vestige of Jack’s enthusi- 
14 


158 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


astic adoration of Angiolina remained. He him- 
self attributed the complete transformation in his 
feelings towards her to indignation aroused by the 
falsehood she had uttered. "Well, the falsehood 
was unpleasant, but a confession of her true posi- 
tion, even though it had preceded her husband’s 
appearance, would also have repelled Jack. The 
fact that she had been married for several years — 
as he afterwards learned — to this dissolute rascal, 
had permitted those insolent lips to kiss her, was 
unutterably repulsive. Had he known her secret 
before, perhaps he might have been content with 
what she could bestow ; but this was not what he 
had expected. She had fallen from her pedestal. 
She was like all the rest, or at least like many 
others. He could not find words enough to revile 
his ridiculous credulity. 

The day after this distasteful discovery he again 
met Rambert. Jack would have avoided him if 
possible, but the Frenchman had recognized him 
in the distance and was hurrying towards him, his 
face beaming with good-humored malice. 

“ I congratulate you, my dear fellow !” he ex- 
claimed, extending his hand to Jack, “I congratu- 
late you with all my heart ! Fate has saved you 
from committing a great folly, Ferrars. But” — 
and he struck the young man heavily on the 
shoulder — what do you say to the matter ? I 
declared that she must have fied from something 
which disgusted her in Italy. I made the hus- 
band’s acquaintance yesterday in the Boule Noire. 
A splendid specimen! The comical part of it is 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


159 


that it is just as difficult to determine to what class 
of society he probably originally belonged as one 
finds it in the case of Angiolina. At first I took 
him for a street scavenger or railroad laborer, he 
was so sodden, so ragged and dirty, — not fit to 
touch with a pair of tongs ! Yet, on the other 
hand, he speaks Italian in a way which is usually 
not heard except among cultivated people, and 
very passable French. He allows other people to 
pay for his liquor, spits on the floor, and then — 
suddenly scraps of knowledge fall from his lips, 
keen remarks which fairly startle one, and such 
sentences as, ‘Prince Massino told me one day.’ 
What do you say to it ?” 

“ That it is extremely interesting to learn that 
Angiolina’s husband is on intimate terms with the 
Prince Massino.” 

“ Pshaw ! In what a tone you speak ; how tragi- 
cally you take the matter!” said Rambert, won- 
deringly. 

Does that surprise you ?” asked Jack, venom- 
ously. “Yet you are usually an excellent judge 
of human nature.” 

“ Am I not ? I showed that yesterday,” replied 
Rambert, with a good-natured laugh. “ Don’t 
take the matter so seriously, — ^you are fairly dazed. 
"Why, my dear fellow, don’t you see that the affair 
has taken the most favorable turn for you possible ? 
Things can be managed with Paolo Minelli ! Now 
that I think of it, Ferrars, — it’s not a pleasant 
idea, but — I wonder if the whole interlude wasn’t 
planned by the husband and wife. H’m I H’m I 


160 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


We were all so delighted with Angiolina’s girlish 
expression, — and to think that she has been the 
mother of two children ! It is said that both are 
dead.’’ 

When Rambert looked up, Jack had disappeared. 

“An odd fellow,” he murmured; “he really 
ought to be glad — glad.” 

Rambert considered himself a judge of human 
nature, and was so regarded by his acquaintances. 
Up to a certain point this was true. In nine cases 
out of ten he judged people accurately, and could 
predict what they would do in this or that situa- 
tion. This resulted from his reliance, in all his cal- 
culations, upon their greed, sensuality, and weak- 
ness ; in short, the lowest instincts of the average 
man. But in regard to an exceptional individ- 
ual like Jack, his shallow penetration was baf- 
fled. The standard by which he measured man- 
kind was too short. On such occasions he was 
puzzled, and at last, shaking his head, arrived at 
the conviction that the person for whom his stand- 
ard was too short was too large, not that the 
standard was too small. A man like Jack was to 
him simply a sort of handsome monster, and the 
latter’s exalted ideas evoked an indulgent smile 
as youthful immaturity, if he did not regard them 
as actual aberration of mind. On the whole, his 
sober view of affairs placed him on a better footing 
with mankind than Jack’s crazy idealism. 

As he expected little from mankind, he was 
rarely disappointed; he took people as he found 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


161 


them. Indulgent without being aware of it, he 
felt at ease with mediocrity, and even understood 
how to accommodate himself to vulgarity when 
this vulgarity had a humorous side. As nectar 
and ambrosia are not to be had, he contented him- 
self with the flesh-pots of Egypt. 

Whereas Jack, on the contrary, — why, good 
heavens ! he wanted nectar, and if he could not 
obtain it he was ready to die of thirst. At least 
this was his intention, though it is true he did not 
carry it into execution. Human nature is very obsti- 
nate, and sooner or later asserts its rights. Thirst 
will be quenched, and, if deprived of every other 
means of doing so, man will slake it in a bog. 

Ah, if Jack had at least suffered from the cur- 
rent idealism which passes from one illusion to 
another ! But this was by no means the case. 
He was laboring under a kind of sporadic, eruptive 
idealism, a condition from which he always awoke 
wdth a feeling of intense shame. 

After his cheering conversation with Bambert 
he had fled to his studio, where he lay hour after 
hour, his head buried in a pillow, sobbing violently, 
with clinched fists. He was furiously enraged 
against the whole human race, and rebelled even 
against the Creator for having made it so con- 
temptible. 

After having raved thus for several hours, sob- 
bing and grinding his teeth until he was fairly 
exhausted, he arrived at the conviction that such 
conduct was unworthy of him, and sought some 
occupation to divert his thoughts. Seating him- 
I 14 * 


162 


A LEAFLESS SEEING. 


self before his easel, he began with weary eyes and 
heavy hand to make some alterations in his Park 
Monceau study. 

Just then some one knocked at the door. 
“ Come in !” called Jack, looking up ; but the 
palette almost dropped from his hand — Angiolina’s 
husband entered. 

He looked as dissolute as he did the day before, 
yet there was a touch of picturesqueness about 
him. He still wore a thick red kerchief round 
his neck, but held the dirty felt hat in his hand. 
Standing thus bare-headed, with his broad low 
brow, round which his long locks, parted in the 
centre, clung in the fashion of RaphaePs “ Violin 
Player,” his face, spite of all the repulsive traces 
of vice stamped upon it, was fairly diabolical in its 
beauty. 

J ack felt a keen pang of agony as the thought 
darted through his mind that Angiolina had once 
loved this scoundrel, clasped him in her soft arms, 
and kissed him with her red lips. A feeling of 
giddiness overwhelmed him. Meanwhile, Minelli 
advanced towards him, but paused at a certain dis- 
tance, saying, “ Pardon me, signore ; my name is 
Paolo Minelli; in other respects the gentleman 
knows who I am.” 

‘‘ May I ask what brings you here ?” said Jack, 
harshly. 

‘‘ Something which perhaps may not be wholly 
unpleasant,” returned Minelli, with a cynical smile 
which showed his sharp, even, white teeth. “ Do 
you speak Italian ?” 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


163 


Jack remained silent. What could bring the 
fellow to him ? he was wondering. 

I can use French also/’ the Italian went on, 
proving that he had perfect control of the lan- 
guage. What I have to say can be briefly stated. 
We are both men of the world, who can understand 
each other without elaborate explanations.” 

Though Jack’s nerves were strained to the ut- 
most tension, the plural from the rascal’s lips ex- 
torted a smile. “ Men of the world !” The Ital- 
ian, shrugging his shoulders, continued : 

‘‘ Monsieur Ferrars does not appear to credit it, 
but I have seen better days. For a year all Italy 
was proud of me, then — ah, temj>i passati, why recall 
it? I remember that time as little as possible. I 
am a philosopher and drink brandy. I am a phi- 
losopher. I’ve read a great many books in my 
day, — all forgotten with the rest ; but one thing I 
do know still, that it is rutfianly to bind a woman 
against her will. It is not in harmony with mod- 
ern ideas, and therefore I have released Angiqlina. 
When she wished to leave me I permitted her to 
go. I expected what has happened, and came to 
ascertain the truth. Well, does not the gentleman 
understand ?” 

Jack stood as if rooted to the floor. 

‘‘ I need money for my travelling expenses,” the 
Italian added, laughing. Three thousand francs 
will ” 

He could not finish the sentence. Jack had 
rushed upon him, dealing a blow with his maul- 
stick across his handsome, repulsive face. An evil 


164 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


look darted from the Italian’s dark eyes ; grinding 
his teeth, he made a movement to throw himself 
upon Jack, but ere he was aware of it the young 
artist had seized him by the collar and flung him 
out of the door like a pile of loathsome rubbish. 

For an instant the Italian remained motionless 
on his hands and knees before Jack’s threshold. 
His head was confused, but in a moment he awoke 
from his bewilderment. His flrst clear thought 
was frantic, furious hate. He would fain have 
strangled J ack, but he knew that he was powerless 
against the Englishman’s muscles of steel. He 
rose, and, passing his dirty hand slowly along the 
railing, descended the stairs. Spite of his degra- 
dation, there was still enough manhood lingering 
in his soul to make him enraged with himself, 
since he had reaped no proflt from his baseness. 
His blood coursed like fire through his veins, — his 
throat seemed choked. 

Suddenly he paused and struck his forehead. 
“ My day will come,” he muttered. “ He loves her 
to distraction ; such a feeling is not forgotten in a 
moment. Sooner or later he will follow her, and 
then ” 

He clinched his teeth. 

That very same evening a dirty, dissipated-look- 
ing man and an exquisitely beautiful woman were 
among the travellers assembled in the Gare de 
Lyon, — Angiolina and Paolo Minelli. 

He had the law on his side ; he had quietly in- 
formed her that he would have her dragged home 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


165 


by the police if she did not go with him volun- 
tarily. 

She submitted to everything. She was like a 
machine, which can do nothing of its own voli- 
tion, but must be set in motion by another’s will. 
Minelli never lost sight of her. He dragged her 
along by the shoulder, gripped her firmly by the 
arm while they were waiting for the doors of the 
waiting-room to be opened, never relinquishing 
his hold until he pushed her into a dark, third- 
class carriage, reeking nauseously with the fumes 
of stale tobacco. Hot until the train was in motion 
did she feel a terrible sense of anguish. With a 
hoarse, half-stifled cry she started up as if seeking 
some way of escape, — now when it was too late. 
Her husband seized her, forcing her back into her 
seat. Then the consciousness of her helplessness, 
her defencelessness, came over her, and with this 
consciousness apathy. The train groaned and 
roared, — away from him, — farther, farther away. 
It seemed as though it was dragging her into a 
dark, stifling, endless abyss. On, ever on, away 
from him, — away from him. She could not forget 
the gesture of loathing with which he had released 
himself from her on the stairs , — he from her, he 
who but a few moments before could find no words 
tender and sacred enough to express his feelings. 
How it was all over ^ Why had she deceived him ? 
Would everything have resulted difierently if she 
had not uttered that lie? She asked herself the 
question again and again as we ask those queries 
to which no answer can be found. Ever on, on, 


166 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


roaring in breathless baste, — away — away — away 
from him ! 

The fate which on the whole, if we judge it very 
favorably, treats us poor mortals like a dutiful step- 
mother, just but unloving, has always bestowed 
upon us one alleviating faculty, it has often blended 
a paralyzing element with our sufferings when they 
have become most poignant. 

The crushing burden of our grief wearies us, 
and, when we deem it least possible, closes our 
eyes in slumber. 

Angiolina fell asleep, sitting upright with her 
head resting against the hard, dirty corner of the 
carriage. Dreams visited her, — ^pleasant ones at 
first ; but this did not last long, her anguish again 
awoke from its temporary lassitude. The con- 
sciousness of reality blended with her dreams, 
without any clearness of detail, only as a dull, 
mute torture everywhere present, growing ever 
more and more violent. May God have mercy 
upon us ! 

Then she awoke. It was already light. The 
pale-green morning sky, in which the last stars 
were fading, was visible through the dingy little 
window. Angiolina at first did not realize where 
she was, she had slept so soundly. 

Beside her sat an old man who coughed inces- 
santly and spit between his knees ; opposite to him 
a little brown-skinned soldier, with very wide scar- 
let trousers, who was smoking a pipe on which an 
odalisque was painted and casting admiring glances 
at Angiolina through the cloud. Then came a 


A LEAFLESS SPRING, 


167 


very fat woman, who was taking some provisions out 
of a red handkerchief, a young one with a baby, a 
field laborer, and a traveller of the better class. 

The air was very close ; the tobacco-smoke, the 
odors emanating from the human beings packed 
together so closely, made Angiolina ill. A feeling 
of inexpressible weariness and desolation over- 
whelmed her. 

The last mists scattered before the dawning day, 
the light grew broader, the wretchedness of her 
position more distinct. 

Her husband sat opposite watching her with 
triumphant cruelty. 

Jack had resolved to take the matter of An- 
giolina’s deception lightly, and simply kill by 
mockery the suffering caused by separation. 

His knowledge of human nature had proved 
thoroughly insufficient; his idealism had become 
bankrupt : on that point he was certain. To give 
others no reason to laugh at him, he must antici- 
pate them and laugh at himself. This he did, 
whenever opportunity offered, with great energy 
and very tenacious persistency. Meanwhile, he 
wore a hold front, and, as he did not succeed in 
killing his despair by mockery so quickly as he 
had expected, he resorted to all sorts of violent 
means, plunging into the midst of the wildest 
amusements of Parisian bachelors. He who, 
hitherto, had never exceeded a certain normal 
standard of youthful frivolity, now vied with the 
most reckless. He seemed to be actually trying to 


168 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


bring bimself to the lowest depths, which, with 
dne perseverance, as we all know, can be accom- 
plished even by the strongest. That in doing so 
he not only trampled underfoot the talents be- 
stowed by God, but also squandered, in the most 
senseless manner, the last remnant of his property, — 
nay, not even content with that, stretched his credit 
beyond all the bounds of good principle, — mattered 
nothing. The only thing that seriously troubled 
him was his failure to find in the bottom of the 
beaker, which he so eagerly drained, the forgetful- 
ness he sought. 

“ Aha ! How are you ? I am delighted to see 
you again 

It was Armand Sylvain who uttered the words, 
as Jack entered his studio two weeks after Angio- 
lina’s departure. 

The old artist’s appearance that day was by no 
means prepossessing. His face was redder and 
more bloated than usual, his eyes were bloodshot, 
his fiabby red underlip trembled. The two points 
of his moustache were twisted upward nearly to 
his temples, and the tall silk hat which he -wore, 
even in his studio, to protect his eyes from the 
light, was cocked jauntily over his left ear. 

Yet the old man looked defiant and arrogant, 
could not sit still a moment, and hobbled, leaning 
on a cane, from one easel to another. Ever and 
anon he uttered an oath, as one of his tender feet 
came in contact with some hard object. Mean- 
while, he glanced constantly at Jack as if expect- 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 169 

ing something, — the meed of praise tendered to 
every artist when one visits his studio. 

But to-day Jack was too lazy or too weary to 
lie, — ^he said nothing. Vexed by his silence, Mon- 
sieur Sylvain peevishly exclaimed, H’m ! How 
forlorn you look ! Haven’t you consoled yourself 
yet for the loss of Angiolina, — or what is it ?” 

‘‘ Angiolina !” Jack repeated, dryly. “Ho you 
really imagine that I am still thinking of that 
deceitful creature? The bare idea!” He flung 
himself into a low chair, stretched his long limbs 
out in front of him, and thrust his thumbs into the 
arm-holes of his vest. 

“ Pshaw 1 You were always fairly daft over 
that woman,” cried Sylvain, “ and it couldn’t have 
been agreeable when the tyrant snatched the sweet 
fruit from your lips.” 

“ Indeed, — did he ?” murmured Jack, with an 
unpleasant smile, which had formerly never rested 
on his face. “You are slightly mistaken if that 
is your opinion. Monsieur Sylvain. Shall I tell 
you the truth ? The tyrant — I presume you allude 
to Angiolina’s estimable husband — the tyrant of- 
fered to return to Italy for three thousand francs, 
and I wouldn’t pay it.” 

“ Indeed, — h’m ! You thought the sum too 

large ?” jeered Sylvain. 

“Ho; too small,” replied Jack, knocking the 
ashes from the end of his cigar with his little 
finger. “We value happiness only when we can 
have an opportunity to pay more than its value ; 
we seek to win it by lavishing all we possess, and 
H 15 


170 


A LEAFLESS SPRING, 


when it is offered for a song we no longer care for 
it, — nay, we disdain it.’’ 

Jack said all this in a dry tone, with an affecta- 
tion of humorousness, but without raising his eyes. 
A pause ensued. 

“You are a fool,” Monsieur Sylvain began at 
last. “ You ought to have grasped it.” 

“ That is a matter of opinion,” replied Jack, 
shrugging his shoulders, and stretching his legs 
still farther in front of him. 

“ Pshaw !” growled Sylvain, “ nothing in the 
world is so torturing as a joy which we have slain in- 
stead of tasting it. Believe me, on your death-bed 
you will think of a pleasure you have foregone.” 

As Jack remained persistently silent, Sylvain as 
persistently endeavored to irritate him. “ What " 
do you say to your knowledge of human nature ?” 
he exclaimed. 

“ How so ?” escaped Jack’s lips. 

“ How ? How ? You were eager to believe 
Angiolina a Jeanne d’Arc. Remember what a 
face you made when I once ventured to suggest 
that she might be a widow ? And now it turns 

out It’s enough to make one kill one’s self 

laughing ; it is indeed. Who does this saint prove 
to be ? A girl of good family who, when barely 
sixteen, ran away with this Minelli, who at that 
time was her music-teacher. Ha ! ha ! ha ! It’s 
enough to make one die of laughing; don’t you 
think so ?” 

“Ho, I don’t; it is a wretched, loathsome busi- 
ness !” cried Jack. “ I wish you good-morning !” 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


171 


He rose and turned towards the door. 

Monsieur Sylvain stopped him. Ho, no, stay ; 
the matter is ended ; I’ll say no more about it. At 
heart I was really more in love with Angiolina 
than you were. I — to me she was the genius of 
my artistic regeneration. I thought she would aid 
me to accomplish something really great, hut — 
nonsense ! a withered tree cannot he made to put 
forth blossoms a second time. You know how I 
regarded my Vestal in Spring, — a work of the 
first order, — all Paris would bow before it. Well, 
I finished the picture to my own complete satis- 
faction. I placed it on exhibition at Petit’s in the 
Hue de Seze. The newspapers made an outcry 
about my work. At first I kept away from Petit’s, 
— everybody has his little touches of vanity. When 
I believed myself sure of success, perfectly sure, 
I went to Petit’s ; I thought — ha ! ha ! ha ! — 
should have an ovation, that people would whisper 
to one another, ‘ There goes Sylvain, the first artist 
of his time, a classic painter,’ — ha ! ha ! ha ! — that 
there would be crowds before my picture. And 
what do you suppose happened ? My painting was 
not hanging alone in Petit’s gallery : he had ar- 
ranged a small Hite exhibition, — elite exhibition; 
that’s what he called it. What sort of paintings 
were they? At the first moment I saw nothing 
but violet, orange, and green spots, — all the colors 
of the rainbow boldly huddled together, — among 
them my Vestal, somewhat dark, but so grave, so 
majestic, a feast to the eyes, on which they could 
rest with pleasure from the mad riot of color sur- 


172 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


rounding it. I rubbed my hands. ITot a soul was 
there. I had gone early. Then by degrees the 
people came in. My Vestal hung in the place of 
honor opposite to the entrance; at first she was 
concealed by the red sofa in the centre of the gal- 
lery. I was annoyed, because it shut out the view 
of my painting. ‘Well, my turn will come,’ I 
said to myself. Methodical visitors who entered 
began at IN’o. 1. How slowly they moved ! Some 
of the daubers detained them a long time. There 
is one fellow named Jeanninot, and another called 
Claude Monet, — a landscape-painter, — and still 
another. Degas, who paints dancing-girls. There 
was a general outcry, exclamations of ‘ What mo- 
tion in the air ! how luminous ! how it lives — ^lives 
— lives !’ At last they reached my Vestal. And 
then — one glance, — no more, — and turning their 
heads away they said ‘ old-fashioned’ and went 
their way.” 

Monsieur Sylvain paused, panting for breath. 
Jack, who, in spite of the unkind stings with which 
the old man had tortured him, now sincerely pitied 
him, murmured something like, “ If people should 
take to heart what every donkey said ” 

“What every donkey said!” fiamed Sylvain. 
“ Just hear the rest. I sat there a long time in the 
same place among the orange- and violet-hued 
daubs. Everybody made the same remark about 
my Vestal : ‘ Old-fashioned ! — old-fashioned !’ and 
passed on. Only one old gentleman with a short- 
handled gold lorgnon remained standing some- 
what longer before it. ‘ Sylvain,’ he murmured ; 


7 


/ 

A LEAFLESS SPRING. 173 

‘ I remember the name ; he was quite the fashion 
thirty years ago, but no one ever mentions him 
now.’ Monsieur Syl vain’s head drooped on his 
breast. Jack wanted to say something; tried to 
find some way to comfort him. But the artist in- 
terrupted his first words. 

‘‘ That’s nothing !” he cried ; I could rise above 
other people’s holding me in light esteem ; but do 
you know, a very singular phenomenon happened. 
While sitting more or less disheartened on the red 
sofa I shut my eyes to rest, and when I suddenly 

opened them they fell upon a picture by Ah, 

what does it matter ? — Claude Monet, I believe ! I 
started ; a curious feeling took possession of me ; 
the scales fell from my eyes. Ay, there was light, 
warmth, and movement ; it lived — and my Angio- 
lina was dead, my whole art was dead, and — I — I 
have stupidly forgotten to die. And to-day — ^to- 
day I have felt as if I had gone mad. I have gone 
from one of my pictures to another trying to per- 
suade myself that I am right and the others wrong, 
but I cannot ! Persuade me out of my fancies ; 
prove that I am an artist !” 

A cold shudder ran down Jack’s back ; he re- 
membered a day in his childhood when his first 
religious doubts assailed him, and in his agony of 
soul, stamping on the ground, he had cried out to 
an older friend on whom he was accustomed to 
cast all his metaphysical anxieties, But prove to 
me that the soul is immortal !” His friend’s reply 
came back to his mind, “ Such things cannot be 
proved; it is a matter of feeling.” And since this 
15 * 


174 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


was the most convenient commonplace he had at 
hand, Jack produced it. 

Sylvain gazed angrily at him ; he had expected 
something consoling. 

“ Go he cried, wrathfully ; “ go, if you have 
nothing more sensible to say !” 

But when Jack, somewhat bewildered and with 
the paralyzing consciousness that he had come to 
the end of his resources, was taking his hat to 
leave the studio, Sylvain grasped his arm, exclaim- 
ing, “ Stay, — ^you see that I am almost wild ! Stay, 
— you will do a good deed ! I really don’t know 
whether my head is on my shoulders to-day. Don’t 
leave me alone !” 

Jack remained, but he began almost to fear the 
old artist, who had squandered his life and pro- 
faned his talent. 

Meanwhile, Sylvain was still limping restlessly 
to and fro. “ There is a circumstance,” he mur- 
mured, “ a circumstance which — ^which makes the 
situation worse. There is a great auction going 
on to-day in the Hotel Drouot, — a sale of pictures 
in which all the distinguished artists of France are 
represented. One of my paintings is among them, 
— a Salome. Of course I am anxious to learn what 
price it will bring. Vandenesse paid me thirty 
thousand francs for the picture ten years ago; 
yesterday I should have hoped it would sell for 
more than fifty thousand. To-day” — ^he stretched 

out his hands helplessly — “ I no longer know ” 

After a pause he began again : ‘‘ It is always an 
anxious time for artists ; the price which the pict- 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


175 


lire brings is published the next day in all the 
papers.” 

He turned his head as if to listen. Ho, no- 
body. Strange. I should have thought the auction 
must be over.” He dropped heavily into a chair. 

Shall I go over to the Hotel Drouot ?” asked 
Jack, good-naturedly. 

“ Oh, no, no,” replied Sylvain ; ‘‘ it isn’t neces- 
sary. Rambert is there. He promised to bring 
me news. It is foolish to be excited over such a 
matter. Yesterday I should have known what to 
expect. To-day ” 

He wiped the big drops of perspiration from his 
brow with the back of his hand. 

A leaden silence followed. The rattle of the 
horse-cars outside was unpleasantly loud in the 
stillness of the studio. 

Sylvain drew out his watch. “I don’t under- 
stand,” he murmured ; “ something must have hap- 
pened.” 

Jack seized his hat. “ I’ll see how things are, 
master,” he cried ; ‘‘ I’ll be back again in twenty 
minutes.” 

Just at that moment footsteps were heard on the 
stairs. ‘‘At last!” cried Sylvain. He went to 
the door, tore it open, and started back with a feel- 
ing of unpleasant surprise. Instead of the friend 
whom he expected to see a messenger entered. 

“Monsieur Sylvain?” he asked, touching his 
cap. 

“ I am Monsieur Sylvain,” replied the artist. 

The man handed him a note. The hand which 


176 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


Sjlvain extended for the little white envelope fell 
hy his side. He had recognized the journalist’s 
■writing ; he knew that the latter would have come 
in person if he had had any pleasant tidings to 
communicate. Hot until after the messenger had 
left the room did he resolve to open the note, and 
then, turning deadly pale, he staggered back, cling- 
ing to a chair for support. 

At the first moment he was evidently disposed 
to withhold the mortifying contents of the missive. 
Then, with a quick gesture, he fiung it to Jack. 
The latter read : 

“ Salome was withdrawn from the sale because 
no one would pay the price at which it was put up. 

“Laugh at the want of taste displayed by the 
public, dear master, and leave it to your friends to 
be indignant. 

“ The affair is simply unprecedented, — unpre- 
cedented ! “ Kambert.” 

“Unprecedented!” cried Jack, furiously. His 
eyes had grown dim and he scarcely knew what 
he was saying. 

“Unprecedented! unprecedented!” echoed Syl- 
vain, grinding his teeth. “ Kambert is right. I 
can only laugh at it; laugh.” He essayed to do so. 

The laugh sounded terrible. He broke off ab- 
ruptly. “ Why am I laughing ? At whom ? The 
public or myself? Myself!” he murmured; “ay, 
myself, for the public — great heaven ! — the public 
is right!” 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


177 


An inexpressible emotion overwhelmed Jack. 
‘‘ Why, master, you ought not to take the matter 
BO much to heart ; surely not when a man can do 
work like yours.” 

Sylvain raised his head. ‘‘ WTiat do I do ?” he 
exclaimed, sharply. “ Look around you and tell 
me honestly whether you can praise any one of 
my pictures from your heart.” 

Jack sought with the utmost earnestness to find 
some sources of comfort for the old artist on the 
walls of the studio and the easels standing about. 
Suddenly his eyes sparkled with honest enthu- 
siasm. 

Not one of your contemporaries has ever painted 
anything finer than yonder study !” he cried. 

Monsieur Sylvain raised his head. “ Which one 
do you mean ?” he asked, slowly. 

“ Yonder lad riding a horse to water. It is as 
beautiful as anything by Gericault.” 

Jack paused; he perceived that he had com- 
mitted a blunder. The fear stole into his mind 
that he had praised something which Sylvain’s 
brush had never touched. 

“ Do you know when I painted it ?” asked the 
latter, slowly. 

Jack shook his head. 

“ Forty years ago, at the time when, with an 
empty stomach and nothing in my pockets, I was 
tramping from one art-dealer to another to sell my 
pictures. It was then that I made this study. I 
know it is beautiful, but why need you cast it in 
my teeth now ? especially to-day, — to- day ! Zounds, 


178 


A LEAFLESS SPUING. 


Ferrars ! you are the greatest dolt in Europe. 
You always thrust your finger into the wound.” 
Monsieur Sylvain grasped a maul-stick with both 
hands as he spoke and broke it across his knee. 

Jack was about to speak, but Sylvain imperiously 
interrupted. ‘‘You are right, perfectly right!” 
he cried. “ The study is good, very good, the 
work of an artist ; and these things standing about 
on my easels are trash. I know it to-day, — ^trash, 
the work of an artisan ; nay, not even an artisan, 
hut a clown, who for five-and-thirty years has 
turned somersaults for the edification of the public, 
and on whom, as a reward for his busy toil to 
please everybody, the public has turned the cold 
shoulder.” 

“ But,, dear master,” said Jack, despondently, 
“ you undervalue your own work and overestimate 
public opinion. The public is known to admire 
mediocrity.” 

“ Oh, yes, with bunglers who are mediocre to 
their finger-tips the public is not only patient, hut 
feels attracted to them. But when a really gifted 
artist begins to make concessions to the crude taste 
of the multitude, the public instantly withdraws 
first esteem and then favor. It is the same thing 
as when an honest man makes attempts at bribery, 
— ^baseness succeeds only with the base.” 

Exhausted and breathless, Sylvain planted him- 
self before his Bulgarian Massacre. “ But I will 
yet show people what I am capable of accomplish- 
ing!” he exclaimed, after a pause. “It is horri- 
ble when an old fellow like me is seized by the 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


179 


longing to distinguish himself, to accomplish some- 
thing magnificent, something grand, — nay, I must, 
though it should be my death ! Only once, — show 
what I can accomplish !” 

His breath failed. He passed his hand across 
his brow, then sank into a chair. 

“ Folly !” he groaned ; “ it is over, — it is over. 
I know it is all over 

He buried his face in his hands and sobbed 
aloud. 


180 


A LEAFLESS SPRING, 


lY. 

Jack had an appointment to breakfast with his 
aunt the next morning. 

It was a hot day, and all Paris was reeking with 
the odor of scorched asphalt, dust, and roses, which 
floated even into the dull rooms of the "Winters 
through the open windows. 

Mrs. Winter was discussing with Jack the best 
watering-place to choose for herself and Mary 
during the warmest summer months. Jack ab- 
sently suggested all sorts of plans, which were 
impossible to carry out, and Mrs. Winter patted 
him smilingly on the shoulder. Then she re- 
marked anxiously about his haggard looks, shak- 
ing her head and raising her forefinger warningly 
as she asked whether he had not been rather too 
wild of late. He made the answer usually given 
by a young man to an old lady in such cases, kissed 
her hand, and said that his haggard appearance 
must be due to the frightful appetite which was 
consuming him. 

They were only waiting for Mary’s arrival ere 
they went to the table, but she did not appear. 

Jack was beginning to jest about her profound 
interest in her work. True, she was now engaged 
upon an inspiring subject, — an old boot stand- 


A LEAFLi:SS SPRING. 


181 


ing beside a stable lantern. It was not so easy a 
matter to tear herself away from so enthralling an 
object. 

Just at that moment the door opened, — Mary 
entered. The expression of her face instantly re- 
vealed that something unusual had happened. 

‘‘ How late you are cried her mother. “ And 
— and — why, what is it ?” 

“ nothing ; you need not be startled ; only. Mon- 
sieur Sylvain has had a stroke of paralysis 

“ Dead asked Mrs. Winter. She had turned 
deadly pale, and was leaning trembling on the back 
of a chair. 

‘‘ Ho ; he is still living, but the case is hopeless,” 
replied Mary. “I waited for the doctor’s opinion ; 
that’s why I am so late.” 

The folding-doors of the dining-room opened 
and the servant announced, “Madame, breakfast 
is served.” 

But Mrs. Winter did not move. She was sitting 
bolt upright in her arm-chair, restlessly smoothing 
with her somewhat stumpy hands the folds of her 
black silk dress. At last she raised her head. 
“How did it happen? Was any one present?” 
she asked, hoarsely. 

“ Ho, no one,” said Mary, quietly. “ This morn- 
ing he was found gasping and helpless, lying on 
the floor in his studio. They say he has led too gay 
a life of late. He is a very dissipated man, — repul- 
sive, isn’t it? It is always disgusting!” Mary 
belonged to that class of Englishwomen who 
think that men should be judged by the same rule 
16 


182 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


of morality as women. ‘‘ Immorality is always re- 
pulsive,” she went on, ‘‘ but, of course, it is doubly 
so in an old man. It is said that he attended a 
very gay entertainment last evening given by the 
actress Leah Eichard. Just think of it, to visit 
her !” 

Jack drummed with his forefinger upon his 
lips; the thought involuntarily darted through his 
mind of what Mary would say if she knew that he 
had attended the same entertainment. Meanwhile 
she went on : 

“ He came home early in the morning. Instead 
of going to his residence he must have entered his 
studio at once. Apparently, in a fit of delirium, 
he set to work to retouch many of his pictures, for 
they were found daubed with streaks of fresh 
violet, pink, and yellow paint. It is said that he 
was lying on the ground with the palette in his 
hand and a bleeding wound in his forehead. One 
side was completely paralyzed.” 

Mrs. Winter had turned slowly in her chair so 
that her hack was towards her daughter. She 
used her handkerchief several times. 

“ Is there no hope ?” asked Jack, anxiously. 

‘‘ The doctor says that there is none. He may 
drag along in this condition for a time, hut appar- 
ently there is nothing better to desire than a speedy 
end. It is terrible ! I was completely overcome 
at first,” Mary protested. ‘‘ Well, I had no special 
interest in him ! Let us go in to breakfast ; I am 
very hungry.” 

But Mrs. Winter, still with her hack turned to 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


183 


her daughter and Jack, rose, and, with drooping 
head and short, heavy steps, approached the door 
opposite to the one leading into the dining-room. 

‘‘ What is the matter, mamma asked Mary, 
sincerely anxious. 

‘‘ I don’t feel very well, children ; please break- 
fast without me. Perhaps I will come — in a little 
while.” With these words she disappeared. 

Four days after the old-fashioned artist was low- 
ered into his grave in a side avenue of the great 
gloomy cemetery of Montmartre, which, being 
within the boundaries of Paris, is constantly sur- 
rounded by the din of the city. 

Mrs. Winter also accompanied him to his last 
resting-place. She was lost in the numbers of the 
outwardly imposing funeral procession, but she 
was the only person who sincerely mourned the 
dead man, — mourned for what he had permitted 
himself to waste more than for his life. 

The others were present mainly because a rumor 
had spread abroad that Alexandre Dumas would 
deliver a funeral oration at the artist’s grave. 

Alexandre Dumas did not deliver an oration, 
and the crowd dispersed much disappointed. J ack, 
who had escorted his aunt to the funeral, returned 
home with her. She sat beside him with a pale 
face and tearful eyes. For a long time she re- 
mained perfectly silent. At last, just before she 
reached home, she raised her head, saying, ‘‘I 
suppose you wonder that this should aifect me so 
much. Jack, after so many years, and when I have 


184 


A LEAFLESS SPEINO. 


seen what he became. What can you expect?’’ 
She sighed ; then added, with deep, resigned melan- 
choly, There are illusions which remain sacred 
even after they have merged into disappoint- 
ment.” 

Soon after the carriage stopped. Jack was go- 
ing to accompany the old lady up-stairs; she 
checked him. “ Leave me alone a little while to- 
day,” she begged, then, pressing his hand, turned 
away. 

Jack, agitated and thoughtful, gazed after her. 

“ There are illusions which remain sacred even 
after they have merged into disappointment,” he 
murmured. He thought the sentiment a beautiful 
one. In returning to his studio he took a round- 
about way in order to pass the house where Angio- 
lina had lived. 

A yellow placard was in the show-window, be- 
tween a blue flannel dressing-sack and a mourn- 
ing bonnet (price twelve francs). Curiosity assailed 
him ; suppose it was her little room which stood 
empty. Three times he turned away, the fourth 
he entered the shop and asked about the room she 
had to rent. The woman blinked oddly at him, — 
why should an aristocratic-looking gentleman in- 
quire concerning such modest quarters ? Did he 
want them for secret interviews ? 

“ I think the room might suit Monsieur per- 
fectly,” she said, boldly. “ The door opens into 
the entry ; Monsieur will be perfectly free to come 
and go.” 

The blood crimsoned Jack’s cheeks, his ears 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


185 


were burning. Had Angiolina considered it an 
advantage to have the door open into the entry ? 

‘‘ Was it the room which the — h’m ! — ^the Italian 
model occupied ?” he asked. 

Does Monsieur know anything about her ?” 

The woman’s eyes twinkled cunningly, not with- 
out a certain careless good nature. 

‘‘Yes,” replied Jack ; then, even now avoiding 
the possibility of placing Angiolina in a false light, 
he hurriedly strove to protect her from any unjust 
suspicion by adding, “ I went up there once. I am 
an artist.” 

“Ah!” 

“ What is the rent ?” 

The woman scanned him from head to foot, 
evidently to make a hurried estimate how far she 
might venture to overcharge him. 

“ Very low. I’ll make it cheap to Monsieur ; we 
always rent cheaper to gentlemen than to ladies. 
Thirty francs a month in advance.” 

Jack flung the thirty francs on the counter and 
asked for the key. Then he climbed the stairs. 

A strange feeling stole over him as he crossed 
the threshold of the miserable little room. He had 
visited it only twice, remained in it scarcely fifteen 
minutes, yet he felt as though he were returning 
to a familiar apartment. 

He recognized the little vases and hric-^-hrac 
which had belonged to her. 

The vases were empty, — dust lay on everything. 
The curtains were drawn back from the narrow 
iron bedstead, which had been stripped of bed- 
16 * 


186 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


clothes. The chamber gave one the impression 
that some one had recently died there. 

Beside the old piano stood the chair in which 
she had sat the day that he surprised her,— just 
before his illusions were destroyed. Her presence 
had ennobled the tiny room ; hut without her how 
pitiable everything looked ! 

Deep emotion overwhelmed him at the sight 
of this desolate penury. He recalled Angiolina’s 
peerless beauty ; he said to himself that she need 
only have stretched out her finger, and the noblest, 
richest, most distinguished men in Paris would 
have vied with each other to lay their princely 
wealth at her feet. She might have occupied a 
palace. 

Instead, she lived in a wretched hired room, and 
wore calico gowns which cost ten cents a yard. 

She had repelled the advances of the most dis- 
tinguished artists in Paris, and yet held out her 
arms to him. Jack. He remembered her words : 
“ So long as the one man whom I love thinks well 
of me, everything else is a matter of indifiference, 
— ^the opinion of men and the judgment of God.” 

An intense compassion seized upon him. The 
recollection of his incredible brutality to her 
weighed heavily upon his soul. He locked the 
door, fiung himself on the fioor beside the little 
iron bed, which was as narrow and hard as a coffin, 
and sobbed bitterly. 

The next morning he sought Luca Canini, and 
asked where Angiolina lived. Luca did not know ; 
he had made her acquaintance in Paris. He in- 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


187 


quired here and there, of this person and that, — • 
no one knew anything about her. 

She had vanished, utterly vanished. 

We are again in London, as in the beginning of 
this story, and again, as in the beginning of our 
story, the two Ferrars are together. Only, it is 
true, — only between that time and now there is a 
very wide difference. 

Instead of the refined comfort which then sur- 
rounded Jack, his environments now revealed ex- 
treme poverty, — the sleeping-room of a second- 
or third-rate lodging-house, a room with gloomy 
mahogany furniture, a threadbare carpet which 
seemed to have been pieced together from the 
remnants of frayed stair-carpeting, a bed which 
resembled a hearse accidentally draped with red 
hangings instead of black ones, and a hideous 
blue and yellow wall-paper. This paper alone was 
enough to give any one the blues. The mantel- 
piece was adorned with sky-blue vases and numer- 
ous pink shells. Coarse white crocheted tidies 
hung on almost all the pieces of furniture. 

Jack himself had changed almost more than his 
surroundings. His clothes hung loosely on his 
emaciated limbs ; they looked dusty, as if the young 
man no longer cared for his personal appearance. 
His hair was badly cut, and the sunny, bright ex- 
pression of his face had wholly disappeared. Two 
deep lines appeared at the corners of his mouth, 
and two dark wrinkles ran from the corners of his 
eyes to his cheek-bones. 


188 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


While Sir Bryan, sitting in a chair covered with 
red plush, was reading him a lecture. Jack, with 
his thin hands under the skirts of his coat, was 
pacing restlessly to and fro. 

So, to sum it up in a single word,” Sir Bryan 
said, closing his lecture, “you are ruined, utterly 
ruined !” 

It was little more than a year since Sir Bryan 
had delivered a similar lecture to his brother, 
closing it with the same annihilating word. At 
that time Jack had thrust his hands into the 
pockets of his coat, and with his blue eyes gazing 
idly into vacancy, murmured, “ Ruined, ruined,” 
and then laughed. The word had been meaning- 
less to him. 

Now he understood it. Surrounded by this dull 
brown mahogany and shabby plush, before the 
hearse-like bed and the soiled paper from whose 
interlaced blue and yellow pattern frightful faces 
grinned, he understood the word “ Ruined !” 

He muttered again and again between his teeth, 
“ Ruined, ruined, ruined, — the devil ! Ruined !” 

Taking a large glass of brandy and soda from 
a small table, he emptied it at a single draught, 
“Confound it!” he murmured, stamping on the 
floor. 

Sir Bryan watched him disapprovingly. 

“ My dear fellow, I would advise you, instead 
of using expressions which are not worthy of an 
English gentleman,” — Sir Bryan clasped his hands 
over the silver knob of his tightly-rolled umbrella, 
— “ I would advise you rather to form a clear idea 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


189 


of the situation, and make some definite plan for 
the future.” 

“ Well, according to what you have told me, my 
best plan for the future would be to find a nail 
strong enough to hang myself from it !” cried 
Jack, bitterly, mixing a second glass of brandy 
and soda. 

“ Let us have no useless forms of speech,” ex- 
claimed Sir Bryan, angrily. “ Suicide, like duelling, 
belongs to a former age. In the early part of the 
century it happened sometimes that people who 
belonged to the first families — Lord Castlereagh, 
for instance — killed themselves; now it is only 
members of the lower classes who seek this mode 
of escape from their difl3.culties.” 

‘‘ Yes, you are right ; it is no longer good form 
to hang one’s self,” replied Jack, sharply, and then 
added, still more sharply, “You must credit the 
commonplace idea to my blood, — these are the 
drawbacks of our extraction.” 

“ Let our extraction rest !” replied Sir Bryan, 
angrily. “ What do you know of our extraction ?” 

“Hot very much, it is true,” replied Jack, 
“ since I have no idea who our great-grandfather 
was.” 

“ Our great-grandfather was the son born in 
poverty of a descendant of the Ferrars who 
stabbed George Yilliers.” 

“ Indeed ! H’m ! So the enterprising student 
of heraldry who devised your genealogical tree 
could find nothing more noble ?” asked Jack. 
“ Do we descend from an assassin, Bryan ? Then, 


190 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


instead of seeking a great-grandfather, I would 
rather stand by my old grandfather, who, at least, 
was an honest man.’’ 

Dear me,” replied Sir Bryan, indignantly, the 
assassin belonged to a very good family.” 

Jack laughed, — there was a touch of his former 
gayety in the sound, but only for a moment, then 
it grew hard and stern. “ H’m ! How times 
change !” he said, mockingly. “ To-day a poor 
simpleton like myself is not even permitted to 
commit suicide lest it should tarnish the Ferrars 
respectability, and in the reign of King Charles 
assassination does not appear to have injured 
aristocracy.” 

This forced and by no means brilliant witticism 
was, of course, little calculated to improve Sir 
Bryan’s temper. He measured his brother with 
an annihilating glance. ‘‘ Cease this foolish jest- 
ing,” he said, reprovingly ; “ that is an old-fashioned 
view; in these times pedigree — except, perhaps, 
for a horse — is not all. Connections are the chief 
point to be considered.” 

Sir Bryan passed his hand complacently over 
his smoothly shaven upper lip. Then he drew his 
watch out of his pocket. “ Six o’clock. I can 
wait no longer. I have made your situation per- 
fectly clear to you; the rest is your own affair. 
Try to keep up your courage. Good-by!” He 
turned to go. 

Jack looked after him- At first he stood as if 
he were rooted to the earth, perfectly motionless, 
with clinched hands and frowning brow. The 


A LEAFLESS SPEINO. 


191 


words he must utter would not cross his lips. At 
last, when Sir Bryan had already placed his hand 
upon the knob of the door, J ack followed, crossing 
the little room in three strides, and laying his hand 
on his arm, exclaimed, hoarsely, ‘‘Bryan!” 

The baronet looked up. 

J ack knew that his fate probably depended upon 
putting his brother into a good humor. He strove 
to find some winning words ; hut Jack was Jack. 
When the baronet warned him by a somewhat 
impatient “Well?” to be more explicit, he could 
find nothing better to say than, “ Bryan ! Is it 
good form to leave one’s nearest relatives to 
starve ?” 

The slowest person will sometimes be ready at 
repartee if sufficiently irritated. Sir Bryan raised 
his dull gray eyes to the face of the younger 
brother, who towered a head above him, and said, 
calmly, “I have never given the subject any 
thought whatever. At any rate, it is good form 
not to provoke those whose good offices we desire.” 

Jack’s head drooped ; his brother was right. 
For a time both were silent, the baronet still with 
his hand on the door-knob, J ack a few steps dis- 
tant with his eyes fixed upon the floor. 

Sir Bryan was the first to renew the conversation. 
He had the triumphant expression of a man who 
has made a rebellious horse feel his power by a 
sharp stroke of the whip, and has not been thrown 
by the animal. 

“Well, no offence. Jack,” he said. “I know 
that it must be difficult for a man of your character 


192 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


and in your position to make a request. But 
speak out. If I can fulfil your wish without wrong- 
ing my own family, — -justice before generosity, jus- 
tice before generosity, — I am ready. Jack, I am 
ready!” 

He spoke almost cordially. Jack, always prone 
to emotion, a tendency which during his extreme 
depression had greatly increased, held out his 
hand, murmuring, ‘‘You are a good fellow; at 
heart you are really a good fellow, and I was beastly 
to you and am sorry.” 

“ Only let us have no sentimentality,” said Sir 
Bryan. “ Tell me instead what you want ; I haven’t 
much time, very little time.” 

“ Bryan, according to what you say I can no 
longer depend upon any income.” 

Sir Bryan raised his eyebrows. “Income? 
Your creditors will have great difficulty in settling 
their claims with the remnant of your property ; I 
doubt if it will be possible to satisfy them. Part 
must go empty-handed.” 

J ack turned deadly pale. “ And — ^Bryan, would 
you permit that, — would you sufter me to bear the 
stigma of dishonor ? Advance what I need to sat- 
isfy my creditors. I will repay you honestly, penny 
for penny.” 

“ Indeed ; and how ?” asked the baronet, an al- 
most humorous smile playing around his usually 
grave lips. 

Jack hesitated a moment, then he drew a long 
breath and, raising his drooping head, said, “ I’ll 
make you a proposal. I am no longer the man I 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


193 


was a year and a half ago. At that time I laughed 
at the idea of living on three hundred pounds a 
year; even with the best intentions I could not 
have accomplished it. 'Eow it is different I have 
associated with so many people who have less, and 
yet live respectably and usefully ” He paused. 

The baronet’s face wore an anxious expression. 

“ Well ?” he said to his brother. 

‘‘Well, you see, Bryan,” — he laid his hand on 
the other’s arm, — “ apparently God has given me 
a talent which only requires earnest cultivation to 
secure me an independent and respected position 
in life. I beg you satisfy my creditors and give 
me for three years an income of one hundred and 
fifty pounds. If in the course of these three years 
I should not be able to discharge my obligations 
to you. I’ll promise that you shall never hear from 
me again.” 

A leaden silence followed. Sir Bryan tapped 
restlessly on the floor with the end of his umbrella. 
At last he returned from the door into the room 
and said, “I won’t be hard on you. Jack. You 
are my brother, and I was once very proud of you ; 
you were the show member of the family, the 
proof of the aristocracy of the race, — ^the assertion 
of the noble blood newly instilled by our mother. 
You are a capital fellow in your way, but you 
wholly lack the perseverance necessary to accom- 
plish anything. You have the best intentions, 
which you never execute, and the noblest impulses, 
with which you merely work mischief. How you 
propose to live in Paris on a hundred and fifty 
I n 17 


194 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


pounds a year and, amid eccentric deprivations, 
study to be a great artist. And do you know, my 
dear fellow, how you would carry out this inten- 
tion as soon as you had your first quarter’s income 
in your hands? You would lend the first ten- 
pound note to some interesting friend who ap- 
proached you with a sufficiently pathetic face ; the 
second you would spend for some Japanese or 
other curio on account of its amazing cheapness, 
in the hope of making something hy it; that is, 
you would invest in the lottery ; in a lottery be- 
cause, finally, it would seem utterly impossible to 
make both ends meet on such a trifie. Yo, Jack, 
I am sorry, but such an arrangement is out of the 
question. I will make another proposal. I cannot 
promise to satisfy your creditors, but I will agree 
to quiet them. For the rest, — I can do no more, — 
I’ll place a thousand pounds at your disposal, on 
condition that you will leave Europe and seek 
your fortune in some other quarter of the globe.” 

Jack’s head drooped very low; suddenly he 
raised it. ‘‘ I understand,” he exclaimed ; ‘‘ you 
want to get me out of the way because it would be 
just as unpleasant to you to have a brother near 
who endured the shabby life required by a small 
income as one who did not accommodate himself 
to it. One would impair the dignity of the Ferrars 
family as much as the other. Well, keep your 
thousand pounds and the assurance that your ofier 
was a remarkably magnificent one for you, while 
I will retain the right of going to ruin where and 
as I choose. Do not waste any more of your pre- 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


195 


cious time. Farewell!” He turned his back on 
his brother and, with something of his former de- 
fiant manner, went back into the room. 

The baronet lingered at the door a moment. 
“You are vexed,” he murmured, shrugging his 
shoulders. “ With a person in your position it is 
no wonder. But I am a man of my word, I will 
not retract my offer ; the thousand pounds will be 
at your disposal; perhaps you may change your 
mind.” 

“ The devil !” muttered Jack, still with his hack 
turned to his brother ; then suddenly, with a hasty 
movement, he wheeled around, pointing towards 
the door. 

Sir Bryan disappeared. He did not feel quite 
comfortable. 

If the prosaic, ambitious man had a tender weak- 
ness for any human creature, — his respectable af- 
fection for his wife and children, an affection which 
was nothing more than expanded self-love and 
self-glorification, was a thing apart and free from 
tenderness as well as weakness, — if the baronet 
had an insufiiciently founded, unreasonable, and 
warm feeling for any person living, it was for his 
brother Jack. He was really almost inclined to 
turn back and fulfil the young fellow’s request. 
But reason told him that this would be folly; and, 
in truth, reason was right, if one could draw any 
inference concerning Jack’s future from his past. 
And then — yes, there Jack had hit the nail on the 
head — it would have been almost as disagreeable 
to the baronet to have an economical brother who 


196 


A L£:AFLESS spring. 


sensibly submitted to the shabby existence bis 
penury imposed, as an extravagant one who con- 
tinued to play the grand Seigneur at Sir Bryan’s 
expense. 

The Ferrars family had not yet taken any firm 
root ; it was a feeble little plant which needed fos- 
tering. 

“ Poor boy !” murmured the baronet. Such a 
splendid fellow ! But there’s no helping him. He 
has brought it upon himself; it is all his own 
fault.” 

This refiection served to console the baronet. 

Meanwhile, Jack had reached the same conclu- 
sion. Only, strangely enough, in his case the con- 
viction brought no comfort, and merely added to 
the intensity of his discouragement. After the 
baronet’s departure, he paced up and down his 
miserable room like a wild beast in its cage or a 
prisoner in his cell, trying to think. But all his pon- 
dering proved futile ; it seemed as if his thoughts 
were confined within a space as narrow as his 
limbs. "What was he to do? The close atmos- 
phere oppressed his breathing. He had thrown 
both windows open, but no very invigorating air 
entered. Strange !” he murmured. ‘‘ If a man 
isn’t a peasant, a little fresh air is a luxury as un- 
attainable as fresh butter and a daily change of 
linen. I could bear everything in this hole better 
than the air, this shabby-tasting air ! As if I still 
had a right to complain of anything, — I — I! I 
have only myself to blame for all, — all !” 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


197 


He sank into one of the mahogany chairs and 
propped his elbows upon the little table where 
the brandy-bottle stood. Suddenly the refrain of 
the song which the peasant lads and lasses had 
sung on the banks of the Seine echoed in his soul : 
“ Qu’as-tu fait, qu’as-tu fait de ta jeunesse !” He 
buried his face in his hands. He had lost all 
power to think. 

Suddenly he felt a touch on his shoulder. He 
did not know to whom the hand belonged, hut 
a pleasant sense of warmth stole over him from 
head to foot. He looked up; a lady was bend- 
ing tenderly, anxiously over him, — his Aunt 
Jane. 

‘‘ Have I found you at last, you silly hoy, you 
foolish, abominable hoy she cried. ‘‘ Is this 
sensible behavior for a reasonable mortal, you 
spendthrift, you reckless, wicked, good-for-nothing, 
you — ^you poor fellow Every one of the former 
epithets she had, as it were, underscored by a little 
pat. As she uttered the last she stooped, stroked 
his cheek caressingly, and repeatedly kissed his 
light-brown hair. Jack kept his face hidden on 
her breast. “Yes, yes,’’ she murmured, “hide 
your face and feel ashamed, thoroughly ashamed, 
and when you have done so, we will resolve to 
hold our heads high again and look the future 
boldly in the face.” 

“ The future !” he muttered, — “ the future !” 

She answered with another little pat. “Yes, 
your future !” she cried, resolutely. “ As if a man 
like you, a man with your talents, had any right 
17 * 


198 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


to despair merely because he has committed a few 
follies, — and mere commonplace follies into the 
bargain, for which you need feel no remorse. 
Well, what is the cause of all this misery 

“ I have wasted my youth, I have lost my prop- 
erty, I have killed all joy within me,” groaned 
Jack. 

“What terrible words!” said the old lady, re- 
provingly. “You are simply ill, my poor boy! 
First of all we will nurse you back to health. 
Come and drive with me to Ivy Lodge. It is very 
dull at our house, but in your present condition it 
will do you good to be a little bored. After that 
we will see. Oh, Jack, Jack! young, talented, 
with nothing in your life for which you have rea- 
son to be ashamed, — a clear conscience and liberty, 
— oh. Jack ! don’t sin against yourself ; you have 
the future before you.” 

The young man, as he listened to her earnest 
words, slowly raised his head. “You are right; 
we will see what can be done,” he said, gently, 
raising her hand to his lips. “ Perhaps I may yet 
accomplish something.” 

“Accomplish something! You will see how 
your strength grows with necessity. Cast all your 
spoiling behind you and — forward !” 

“ Forward !” Jack repeated. 

“ Where are your clothes ? Pll help you pack,” 
said Mrs. Winter. 

“ I haven’t unpacked anything,” answered Jack, 
glancing carelessly at a red valise which lay at the 
foot of the hearse-like bed. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


199 


“Then forward, for the present to Putney!’’ 
cried Mrs. Winter, humorously. 

J ack often recalled the words “ Forward, for the 



The aunt and nephew drove together past the 
monotonous chocolate-colored architecture along 
the road to Putney. Jack had not been over it 
since he had gone on that beautiful May-day to 
seek a bride. A shudder ran through his frame 
at the thought. He had suddenly turned hack — 
whither ? 

He involuntarily glanced out of the cab in which 
he sat with his aunt. A yellowish-gray fog was 
sinking from the clouds, rising from the earth, and 
veiling everything in a cold, damp atmosphere, 
which oppressed the chest. Only a short time be- 
fore it had seemed to Jack as if this chill, creeping 
fog were resting on his life, too, crushing it to the 
earth and extinguishing every joy. And now his 
aunt Jane’s affection and sympathy had conjured 
into the mist a little islet of light and warmth. 
Ah, it was such delight to he cheered by this over- 
flowing sympathy, to seek refuge in it from the 
gray oppressive national fog ! He was placed un- 
der no obligations. He only wanted to rest a few 
days. He was so frightfully weary. 

Pest, and then — ^yes, what then? He could 
pursue the train of thought no farther : he was 
weary. 


200 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


Y. 


I^ow he was in Putney. Days became weeks, 
yet he did not think of departure. He felt happy 
there, nay, it even seemed as if he had rarely been 
more at ease. The regular monotony of life in the 
quiet suburb exerted a beneficial infiuence upon 
his shattered nervous system. His former exist- 
ence lay behind him like a fiercely burning fever, 
from which he rejoiced to be freed. “ I have 
grown old, I have suddenly grown old,” he said to 
himself, and then added that he was glad to he 
old, and in this he was sincere. 

Everything in his new surroundings pleased 
him, — the Puritanical simplicity of the style of 
housekeeping, the healthful regularity, plainness, 
and lack of high seasoning in the fare, the fra- 
grance of lavender, sharpened by a slight odor of 
camphor which pervaded the dwelling, nay, the 
very bareness of the furniture and the old-fash- 
ioned light tints of the wall-papers. There wero 
moments when Jack actually loved the crude, in- 
artistic steel engravings in brown wooden frames, 
which covered a portion of these papers. He was 
like a man satiated with wine who eagerly drinks 
pure water. Everything which reminded him of 
the fever of life repelled him. A person who has 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 201 

sought refuge from the world in a convent may 
have similar emotions. 

Above his bed in the chamber, fairly shining 
with neatness, which he occupied in Ivy Lodge, 
hung an engraving which at first sight appeared 
somewhat comical to Jack and afterwards touched 
him : an Infant Jesus, attired in a long white 
night-robe, with a gigantic halo round his head, 
was kneeling at the feet of the Virgin Mary, who 
was teaching him to pray. It was so innocent, so 
simple ; every morning when he woke the Infant 
Jesus smiled at him, and in the evening the last 
thing he saw before extinguishing his light was 
the child at prayer. One day, half involuntarily, 
he clasped his own hands, and, almost ere he was 
aware of it, the simple, fervent words of the first 
prayer he had learned to falter when a child at his 
mother’s knee fell from his lips. 

His religious convictions, like those of most of 
the enlightened young men of our times, had 
reached a very hypothetical ‘‘Perhaps.” During 
the first evenings of his stay at Mrs. Winter’s he 
had remained merely from a sense of courtesy, 
when she assembled the servants, just before the 
hour of retiring, to read a verse from the Bible and 
repeat the Lord’s Prayer. 

Within a short time he had grown accustomed 
to listen for the words and repeat the prayer ; and 
then he enjoyed the little religious ceremony as a 
nervous invalid likes his sleeping potion. 

On Sundays he accompanied his relatives to 
church. It was an unpretending little edifice 


202 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


where an aged vicar conducted the services in a 
very dull, old-fashioned style. 

He was not one of the modern clergymen who 
have read David Strauss and E-ohert Elsmere and 
are now striving to reconcile science and religion, 
which is much the same thing as harnessing an 
animal and a bird to the same pole. Jack had at- 
tended such experiments in the fashionable quarters 
of London. They had always seemed to him some- 
what ludicrous; and he had sincerely marvelled 
at the enthusiasm with which the congregation — 
especially the feminine portion — ^listened to these 
masterpieces of intellectual oratory, in which 
chasms not to be bridged were eluded by insinu- 
ating sophisms. 

No, the Eev. Arthur Lang accepted his re- 
ligion in modest humility, as it had come down 
to him from his forefathers, simply and sincerely, 
which is the only way to prevent an intelligent 
church-goer from thinking of the wide variance 
that must ever exist between our faith and our ideas. 

Jack now liked to go to church, and spent two 
hours every Sunday, with genuine pleasure, in the 
Winters’ big old-fashioned family pew. 

Did he pay much heed to the religious services ? 

He enjoyed the cold odor of lime of the white- 
washed walls, the subdued light which, falling 
athwart the tombstones and between the sombre 
arbor-vitse trees in the cemetery which surrounded 
this old-fashioned house of God, stole through the 
small panes of its high, narrow windows. 

The colors of the interior, consisting only of 


A LJSAFLESS SPRING. 


203 


white, gray, and brown, were grateful to his eyes, 
as the simple hymns, sung almost without accom- 
paniment, fell soothingly on his ears. He was 
pleased, too, with the ardent, devout expression in 
the eyes of the worshippers, all gazing in the same 
direction, — the crucifix resting against the hare wall 
of the church. And gradually J ack’s eyes followed 
the others; the magic of the great legend sur- 
rounded him. 'WTiile he let the hymns, without 
heeding the meaning of their words, steal into his 
soul like a soothing caress, his thoughts wandered 
to the poor Jew of Hazareth who, when He could 
not save men, at least taught them to die with 
resignation. 

He forgot that behind this resignation stood 
Hope with outspread wings. Hope was a disturb- 
ing element which, in his anxious haste to destroy 
the last vestige of the fever rising in his veins, he 
had pitilessly stricken from the narcotic programme 
of his life. 

Day by day he narrowed his horizon, forced his 
thoughts into more and more restricted circles. 
He no longer even read the newspapers, — every- 
thing which recalled the present, with its ceaseless 
struggle to press forward, was distasteful. 

In this stagnation he expected to find health. 
But what he mistook for health was merely an 
artificial torpor, which must be followed by a 
terrible reaction. 

‘‘Jack, what have you been doing all day 
long ?” 


204 


A LEAFLESS SPEING. 


It was Mrs. Winter who put the question to her 
nephew. 

She was sitting beside the hearth in the same 
long, spacious, somewhat low room where Jack 
had met her on his first visit to Ivy Lodge. 

The young man was standing on the threshold 
of the open door leading into the garden, gazing 
out. 

“ What have I been doing ?” he repeated, in the 
inert manner which had recently become habitual. 
“ What I have been doing for the last few weeks, 
— feeling comfortable !” 

“ Feeling comfortable, — feeling comfortable !” 
repeated the old lady, impatiently. “ If you can 
feel comfortable under existing circumstances, it is 
evident that you are ill.” 

‘‘ HI !” Jack shrugged his shoulders. “ What 
put that idea into your head ? I have seldom been 
so well.” 

‘‘Well, — well!” cried Mrs. Winter, angrily. 
“ When people are on the point of freezing, they 
say they feel comfortable. The last stages of numb- 
ness are always soothing; but, dear me, at your 
age people don’t think of torpidity. Death is still 
far distant. Live !” 

Jack shook himself. “ Ah, let me alone. Aunt 
Jane ! Life is so painful 1” he replied. 

“ Sometimes it is, at others it is very good,” 
rejoined the old lady; “we must put up with 
that.” 

“ Exactly what I am trying to do,” Jack asserted. 

“What! by dozing, lounging, and brooding? 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


205 


This is the most thorough morphine treatment to 
which you are yielding ! I have been watching you 
more and more closely day by day, and — under- 
stand you each day less.’’ 

“You don’t understand how I can consent to 
live on so one day after another at your expense,” 
said Jack, slowly. 

The old lady crimsoned with anger. “ Come 
here !” she cried. 

Jack turned from the open door and approached 
his aunt. 

“ Kneel down !” she commanded. 

He did so, whereupon she dealt him several not 
very gentle slaps on both cheeks. “ There,” she 
said, “ that is for your nonsense. But the life you 
are now leading cannot fail to bring on softening of 
the brain. Once for all, my boy, never forget that 
you are dearer to me than anything else in the 
world, and so long as I have a crust of bread 
which is large enough to be divided into halves, I 
am ready to give you one of them.” 

“ You need not assure me of that ; I knew it,” 
said Jack ; “ but what would you think of me if 
I were equally ready to accept this half?” 

The old lady remained silent. 

Dusk was beginning to approach ; the days are 
short in October. Jack placed another log of 
wood on the fire and, shivering, spread his hands 
over the blaze. 

“ Have you already formed any plan for your 
future ?” asked the aunt. 

“ My future ? — no ! I cannot yet !” murmured 
18 


206 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


Jack, shaking his head. ‘‘ I know that it must he 
done, hut — let me alone a little while longer; it 
is still too distasteful to busy myself with the 
problem of my existence.” 

Jack, you foolish fellow, I can’t listen to this !” 
Mrs. Winter exclaimed, indignantly. “ If at least 
you would trust me ! It is impossible that the 
loss of your little pittance could have placed you 
in this condition.” 

“ Oh, no !” — Jack shook his head — “ but — life is 
loathsome to me. 

‘‘It is loathsome because you have destroyed 
your pleasure in it. Why have you done so ? 
Why have you, during all these last months, 
squandered your health, your money, and your 
time, all with a face as mournful as that of a grave- 
digger at a state funeral, without deriving a single 
hour’s enjoyment from it all ?” 

“ Oh, Aunt Jane, don’t question me ! Questions 
are useless, and answers would be equally so.” 

“Yet I shall continue to ask,” she replied. 

“ How you torture me !” he exclaimed, almost 
fiercely. “ But if you must know all : during the 
months of dissipation of which you speak I killed 
a foe, — my youth, and am now in the act of bury- 
ing it. Day by day a little deeper, a little deeper 
still, — one more spadeful of earth, — not enough yet, 
— a stone, a fiat, heavy stone, that it may not stir 
any more, — never any more ! And when my task 
is done, when the fever is wholly spent, then — 
why, then I will once more, in God’s name, pa- 
tiently take up the burden of my life !” 


A LEAFLESS SPRING, 


207 


That is, you want to make yourself artificially 
old,” said Mrs. Winter. 

‘‘Yes, aunt, I do !” returned Jack, grinding his 
teeth. “ K you knew how I envy your white hair 
and quiet content.” 

“ You — envy me ?” The old lady gazed mourn- 
fully at the handsome, vigorous young man. “ You 
— envy me ? Well, let that pass ; the content of age 
is more sorrowful than the despair of youth, — and 
do you know why ? I will tell you. Because in 
youth, no matter how disheartened we may be for 
the moment, heaven is before us ; while in age, no 
matter whether we have enjoyed it or not, it lies 
behind us.” 

“ Indeed !” cried Jack, bitterly. “ I should like 
to know in what form.” 

“ Heaven on earth is always a narrow paradise,” 
said the old lady, “ yet whatever joys it can offer 
here below should be yours. You are talented, 
you can find pleasure in your work, perhaps some 
day be proud of your career, and then you can 
think of establishing a home. You will probably 
find somewhere in the world a girl endowed by 
nature as generously as yourself, who is well suited 
for your life companion, and when you meet her 
it will not be difficult to secure her. There are no 
two things in the whole universe fairer than love 
and labor, — labor for those whom we love, for- 
getfulness of self for the sake of some one dearest 
to us, — that is heaven on earth! True, it never 
fell to my lot ; it lies untasted far, far behind me, 
yet I can imagine how fair it must be.” 


208 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


“ Ah, aunt, it seems fair to you simply because 
you never tasted it,’’ replied Jack, very bitterly, 
“ because your illusions were not shattered on the 
cliffs of reality. But, believe me, it is not fair, — it 
is a mere delusion of Satan. Its avant-courier is 
the delirium of fever; after we have enjoyed it, we 
endure horror and loathing. This is the so-called 
heaven upon earth ; this is love ! Passion is a siren 
which, while wallowing in the mire, grasps at the 
stars. I want no more of either !” 

Poor Mrs. Winter’s eyes, profoundly innocent 
with all their shrewdness, gazed long and earnestly 
at him with an intensely perplexed expression. 
She did not understand him ; her wisdom was ex- 
hausted ; she could only murmur, “You are ill ! 
you are ill !” 

“ I was ill,” Jack answered, “ very ill, hut I am 
improving every day. Who tells you that I am 
not thinking of establishing a home ?” he added, 
in a low tone. “ I often think of it. But one 
thing I will say : I shall not choose for a companion 
one of your richly-gifted, fascinating girls ! Yo, 
my wife must be clever, quiet, sincere, and some- 
what practical ; pretty, but not beautiful ; sensible, 
hut not intellectual ; a trifle domestic. I want to 
have a soothing element near me ; can you compre- 
hend that, aunt ?” 

Mrs. Winter nodded. “ I understand what you 
wish; understand it perfectly, — a smooth, heavy 
tombstone on the grave of your youth.” 

“ Why, yes,” Jack answered, almost deflantly. 

“ Jack ! Jack ! Don’t be foolish !” cried the old 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


209 


lady, warniiigly. Youth cannot be killed thus 
in a day. It will not die ; do you hear ? Bury it as 
deep as you please, and lay the heaviest tombstone 
on it, a sunbeam will yet come to wake it to life ; and 
then it will rise from the grave, hurling the stone 
aside ; it will be greedy, pitiless, and work infinite 
woe, misusing its unchained powers, — the powers 
that might have bestowed so much happiness.” 

Jack made no reply. The twilight gathered 
more and more closely around the pair. Silence 
reigned. Nothing was heard save the crackling 
of the fire, and from without a low, shuddering, 
mournful sound floated through the open door, a 
sound blended with a sweet odor, — the scent of 
autumnal decay. 

Jack had risen and returned to his post at the 
door. 

Mrs. Winter followed him. The soft dusk rested 
on the garden like a violet veil, striped here and 
there with the silver-gray hue of the evening mist. 
It crept over the ground, softly ascended the bushes, 
and eftaced with its shimmering folds the outlines 
of the ancient ash-trees. 

The air was warm and damp; not the faintest 
breeze was stirring, no bird-notes were heard, only 
ever and anon a leaf rustled wearily to the earth 
with a sound like a faint sigh. A sacred awe per- 
vaded everything,— the awe of nature’s death. 

Denser and denser grew the twilight, deeper the 
veil of mist. 

“How beautiful the autumn is!” Jack mur- 
mured. “ I hate the spring.” 

o 18 * 


210 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


From an adjoining room rose the choral of 
Bach’s Matthew-Passion : “ When 1 must Die.” 

It was Mary ; she played stiffly, awkwardly, but 
simply and correctly. 

Jack turned his head. It seemed as if drops of 
ice-cold water were falling on his sore heart. 

“The most beautiful music in the world!” he 
said. 

Mrs. Winter shook her head sorrowfully and re- 
peated, “ You are ill, Jack, you are ill 1” 

He was indeed ill. A few days removed all 
doubt of it. 

The day after this conversation Mrs. Winter 
again had an earnest talk with her nephew, offering 
him at its close what Jack had vainly asked his 
brother, — ^the allowance of an income, that he 
might devote himself for the next three years, with 
no anxiety concerning means of living, to the study 
of his art in Paris. Of course she was ready to 
make this income larger than Jack had expected 
from Sir Bryan. 

“ I can easily spare four hundred pounds a year,” 
she said ; “ that is what you need at present to live 
healthfully and suitably. Only I must mention 
one thing, my dear boy; You can have the use of 
my entire income during my life. If necessary, I 
will joyfully give you my last shilling, but I can 
leave you nothing. I married my husband without 
having any marriage settlement. Consequently, 
according to the English law, my property became 
his. He ' bequeathed it to his two daughters, set- 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 211 

tling upon me only a life income, though a gener- 
ous one.’’ 

It was agreed that Jack should go to Paris early 
in January. Meanwhile, he promised to set to 
work while at Ivy Lodge. 

On the very next tolerably warm I^ovemher 
morning he did drag his easel into the garden, and 
began to reproduce on a large canvas the poetic 
autumnal decay. The work interested him. His 
brush willingly obeyed his perceptions. He found 
very appropriate tones of color to represent the 
mood of nature. Suddenly he felt as if a hard, 
heavy hand had seized his head. He paid no heed 
and worked on. But the hand grew heavier and 
heavier, the pressure more and more painful. The 
pang extended the whole length of his back, and 
was even felt in his wrists. The brush fell from his 
grasp. “ How clumsy !” he murmured, stooping 
to pick it up. He had the utmost difficulty in stand- 
ing erect again. Just at that moment a small, cool, 
somewhat hard hand touched his shoulder. 

“ Oh, how superb, how wonderful ! What rich- 
ness of color!” cried Mary Winter. The words 
flattered Jack. Besides, they were really apt, 
though it was merely by accident, for Mary had 
no true appreciation of art. She liked everything 
Jack painted. She would have thought his study 
superb, wonderful, and rich in color had he repre- 
sented the autumnal atmosphere by green and blue 
squares. 

‘‘ Do you really like it ?” he asked, forgetting his 
aching limbs a moment. 


212 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


“Magnificent!” cried Mary, enthusiastically. 
“You will he the greatest landscape-painter of 
your time ! But come in now, lunch is ready.” 

Jack sat down at the table in a somewhat ex- 
alted mood. But no sooner had he eaten his eggs 
(lunch at Ivy Lodge always began with eggs) than 
he again felt the pain which had so unpleasantly 
surprised him in the garden, only it was far more 
violent and accompanied with unbearable discom- 
fort. 

“ Pray excuse me. I cannot sit through the 
meal. I must lie down a moment,” he said to the 
two ladies. 

Wearily, scarcely knowing how he accomplished 
it, he crept up the stairs. Wlien Mrs. Winter 
came to look after him he was lying on the bed 
with his teeth chattering and his face turned to- 
wards the wall. 

La grippe, the spiteful infiuenza which paralyzes 
mind and body, had attacked him. 

The disease had already lost the reputation 
for harmlessness with which it was at first cred- 
ited, and the physicians did not conceal from 
Mrs. Winter that they considered Jack’s situa- 
tion critical. A severe attack of infiammation of 
the lungs still further complicated the state of 
affairs. 

For the space of a fortnight Jack was too miser- 
able to feel any further interest either in life or in 
death. On the sixteenth day after his illness he 
began for the first time to take some notice of what 
was passing around him. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


213 


Mrs. Winter was sitting by his bedside in a large 
arm-chair. He dimly saw the outline of her figure 
by the faint light of an oil-lamp covered with a 
green shade. He tried to raise himself on one 
elbow, but it cost him a great effort; his whole 
body seemed to have been changed into lead. 

“ Aunt,” he asked, carelessly, ‘‘ am I going to 
die ?” 

“ Heaven forbid, my dear boy ; you are on the 
most favorable path to recovery,” she answered, 
earnestly. 

“ H’m !” murmured Jack, peevishly, like a weary 
man who has anticipated a quiet sleep and is in- 
formed that he must rise in half an hour. The 
prospect of living longer did not afiford him the 
slightest pleasure. 

‘‘ I had really been rejoicing that my days were 
coming to an end,” he said. 

“Hush,” replied his aunt, reprovingly; “we 
know that it is the grippe. Total destruction of 
the desire to live is one of the symptoms of the 
disease.” 

“ Ah, then the grippe is evidently one of the dis- 
eases which make people sensible,” remarked Jack. 

“ You goose !” 

“ Why a goose ? Is there anything in the world 
more foolish than the desire to live, — ^that which 
Chateaubriand characterizes as Ha manie d’Mref 
A something which compels us to continue an 
occupation that is repugnant.” 

“ So you are beginning to philosophize ; I am 
glad,” replied the old lady, approaching Jack’s 


214 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


bed and smoothing his bolster. The doctor 
thought that you would recover your senses to-day ; 
he prepared me for having you turn from life with 
indignation ; if affairs went very well, you would 
begin to philosophize. ‘ If the horror continues,’ 
the physician said to me, ‘ give your patient a glass 
of brandy ; if he arrives at philosophizing, insist 
upon his having a plate of soup.’ I’m going to 
get you the soup.” 

Before leaving the room Mrs. Winter removed 
the green shade from the lamp. A pleasant twi- 
light pervaded the apartment. Jack now saw dis- 
tinctly the little figure of the Infant Jesus, with 
the gigantic halo, praying above his bed. 

The wind was raving outside of the house and 
the half-frozen winter rain beat against the panes. 
The comfort of warmth and security surrounded 
Jack. K only he need not stir again, but drowse 
on till death came, — ^he asked nothing more. 

Just then the door opened and Mrs. Winter en- 
tered. Behind her came Mary, bringing with her 
own hands to his bedside the tray on which stood 
the soup. 

r ' 

Three days later he had left his chamber, and 
shortly after he was permitted to walk out half an 
hour in the noonday sun. It might now have been 
expected that his vigorous young organism would 
speedily recuperate. But no. The weakness re- 
mained unchanged day after day ; trivial relapses 
occurred, giddiness, pains in the limbs, buzzing in 
the ears. He was no longer confined to the bed, 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


215 


but he dropped as it were from one chair into 
another, and for several weeks after leaving his 
room hobbled about the house leaning on a cane. 
The numbing of the vitality, the total lack of en- 
joyment of life, increased rather than diminished. 
His present condition bore no comparison to the 
comfortable, dreamy melancholy with which he 
had dragged himself through existence before the 
final outbreak of illness. He now felt to his very 
finger-tips such heavy, utter despondency, that it 
was unspeakably irksome even to stir under the 
burden. He could not resolve to commence the 
most trivial occupation. His discomfort assumed 
the most varied forms: dread, — ^he knew not of 
what, of the future, of every approaching day, — 
pangs of conscience, and, above all, the conviction 
that his talent had been a mere invention of his 
friends, that he would be condemned to be sup- 
ported by his relatives all his life. He could have 
wept like a little child at the thought, and he often 
did turn his face to the wall and actually shed 
tears. Then he was ashamed of himself. He 
spent his whole time in being ashamed of some- 
thing or dreading something. K he said anything 
concerning his state of mind, people answered 
quietly that that was perfectly natural ; it was the 
consequence of the grippe. 

His personal appearance had changed : his feat- 
ures had lost their clear-cut outlines, his face was 
bloated and pale, even his limbs were larger ; his 
whole figure had grown more clumsy. 

During this time Mary’s treatment of him was 


216 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


admirable. The vivacious, somewhat restless old 
lady lectured him too much, labored too earnestly 
and too soon to excite him, — rouse him from his 
apathy. Mary left him to his moods, paid no heed 
to his boundless and sometimes offensive irrita- 
bility, waited upon him as if he were a child, and 
guessed his wishes — the few he still had — ^before 
they were uttered. 

She, who could not understand his nature so 
long as he was strong and well, comprehended 
him now that he was weak and miserable better 
than her step-mother. He began to miss her if 
she was away long. He called her a dozen times 
a day, but when she came he had nothing to tell 
her. Yet her presence did him good, soothed him. 
He often asked her to play something ; always the 
same earnest, mysterious chorals or solemn, melan- 
choly dance measures by Bach. She played clum- 
sily, without any attempt at expression, on the old 
piano, which on Jack’s account had been moved 
from the drawing-room to the sitting-room, and 
this calm, ghostly music pleased him. He could 
not endure any other. 

Another week passed. He had now adopted 
the habit of having Mary read aloud to him. The 
selection of the books he left to her. He was still 
unable to follow a solid history or philosophical 
essay, so she tried novels. At first he smiled at 
the milk-and-water stories, which seemed to him 
almost ludicrous in the simplicity of their psycho- 
logical groundwork, whence the treatment of any 
deep problem was excluded. Soon this wishy- 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


217 


washy diet wearied him. Then Mary took up 
older works, which, though possessing much philo- 
sophical value, had, so to speak, only a bowing 
acquaintance with love, keeping it at a respectful 
distance. She read the immortal essays of Charles 
Lamb, the sweetest cradle-songs ever sung by one 
tortured human soul to other suffering spirits; 
lastly, the ever-venerahle, ever-young “ Vicar of 
"Wakefield.” 

While reading the story of the life of this sorely- 
tried philosopher Mary once fiushed crimson, 
which was very becoming to her, and then some- 
thing strange happened. Jack laughed, then took 
her cool, slender hand in his and kissed it. 

It was near the end of January. The snow in 
the little garden of Ivy Lodge looked white and 
pure as it is rarely seen in London. J ack’s room 
looked out upon it. He fixed his eyes on the 
glaring white expanse ; it pleased him like every- 
thing that was cold and pure. The flakes were 
still falling through the air, white and silent, 
denser and denser. A great peace had descended 
upon the earth. 

At last he turned away from the widow ; he was 
not yet full dressed. Standing before the mirror, 
he began to shave. He now shaved every day, 
and again bestowed upon his dress the punctilious 
care which is one of the daily habits of every well- 
bred person. While thus looking into the glass 
he made a discovery, — namely, that his hair was 
beginning to turn gray, — yes, that he had a num- 
K 19 


218 • 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


ber of gray hairs around his temples and that lines 
were appearing on his face. He pushed the mirror 
nearer to the window and smiled. He looked like 
a man of forty. Yes, his wish was granted, he 
had grown old; youth lay behind him. He 
stretched his long limbs ; he would have liked to 
whistle. One must be six-and-twenty to rejoice 
over the first white hairs. 

At the same time the first desire to work which 
he had felt since his sickness stirred within him. 
When he came down to breakfast, he asked Mary 
what had been done with his painting materials. 
She replied that they had all been put into the 
great hall which Sarah had formerly used for her 
children’s temperance meetings. The northern end 
was wholly of glass, the other windows were com- 
pletely darkened by blinds and curtains. She was 
using it temporarily as a studio. She would be glad 
to give him, “ the more eminent artist,” as she smil- 
ingly expressed it, the best place and the best light. 
After breakfast J ack really did go to the work-room 
his cousin had improvised. The platform on which 
the long-haired house-painter, now Jack’s Cousin 
Bray, had given his terrifying musical performances, 
and the Rev. Jessaiah Juniper had made hell burn 
for the poor youngsters in his lectures, was removed. 

Jack looked for the horrible sentences painted 
on the walls, but most of them were covered with 
studies. 

To his great surprise he soon perceived that the 
majority of the latter had come from his factory,” 
as he expressed it. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


219 


“ Who has brought my masterpieces here he 
inquired, in pleased astonishment. 

Mary blushed as she replied, thought you 
might be glad to see a few old acquaintances.” 

“So the pictures were forwarded here at your 
desire ?” asked Jack, sincerely moved. 

“ What does it matter ?” murmured Mary. 

“ What does it matter ? What does it matter ? 
You are a treasure, Molly.” As he spoke he laid 
both hands affectionately on her shoulders and, 
drawing her towards him, kissed her forehead. 
She started back and left the room. At first he 
moved to detain her, then paused and remained as 
if rooted to the ground, with his eyes bent on the 
fioor. For the first time since his illness he felt 
the necessity of smoking. Like many men, he 
had a fanc^ that smoking helped him to think, and 
as soon as any complicated problem occupied his 
mind he seized a cigarette. He laughed at him- 
self ; he could scarcely expect to find either cigars 
or cigarettes in this house. But just as he was 
leaving the room his eyes fell upon a little table 
furnished with a smoker’s set. This was another 
old acquaintance from Paris, — ^his own little table. 
There stood the Japanese candlestick with a red 
candle in it; a forest of matches filled the open 
jaws of a bronze frog, and in a low, basket-shaped 
holder the desired cigarettes met his eyes, — the very 
brand of Eussian cigarettes he preferred. He took 
one out, lighted it, and laid it down again ; then 
he drew a second from the bunch, and smoked it 
absently, then another and another. 


220 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


‘‘ Strange lie muttered, under his breath, — 
strange !” 

Mary did not appear at lunch. She had gone 
to visit an invalid friend — so Mrs. Winter informed 
her nephew when the latter asked for the young 
girl. 

Mrs. Winter seemed to be very much absorbed 
in thought. 

After lunch Jack went to the improvised studio 
and daubed a little. But, spite of his brief period 
of study, he was far too genuine an artist to find 
pleasure for any length of time in thus improvising 
on canvas. The occupation wearied him; his 
thoughts and his eyes wandered from the sketch. 
A large green-tinted study, which was hung in the 
best place on the wall, attracted his attention. He 
recognized the study he had painted in the Park 
Monceau, and at the same instant recollected a 
debt which in the total collapse of his business 
affairs he had entirely forgotten, — the debt to his 
American art-dealer. It was certainly strange that 
the man had not sent some urgent reminder. 

Jack suddenly became very uneasy. Hastily 
cleansing his palette, he cleared away the dis- 
order he had caused and went back to the sitting- 
room. 

Mrs. Winter sat by the hearth with a book in 
her lap. The tea-kettle was bubbling at her side. 

‘‘Why, aunt, the tea-kettle is boiling over!” 
cried Jack. 

She looked up at him in bewilderment; her 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 221 

tliouglits evidently had a long road to traverse ere 
they returned to the tea-kettle. 

‘‘ Shall I make the tea ?” asked Jack, persua- 
sively. 

As you choose,” replied Mrs. Winter, without 
the caressing intonation to which he was accus- 
tomed from her lips. 

He made the tea. Like many bachelors, he was 
an adept in its preparation. “Well, aunt?” he 
said, pouring out a cup for her, in doing which he 
remembered all her little fancies, — so many lumps 
of sugar, so many drops of cream. But she paid 
no attention to these graceful courtesies except to 
say,— 

“ Set the cup down and pour out one for your- 
self, if you like.” 

Jack felt no inclination to do so. He was not 
accustomed to such treatment, and resented it. 
He waited a short time for his aunt to say some- 
thing more to him, and as she remained silent he 
rose to leave the room. But before he reached 
the door Mrs. Winter called him back. “Why 
don’t you take some tea. Jack?” she asked. 

“Why do you leave your cup standing?” he 
queried, in reply. 

“ I have anxieties. Jack; heavy anxieties.” 

He turned, threw himself upon a cushion at her 
feet, and, clasping her wrinkled old hands in his, 
said, “ Will you not confess what troubles you ?” 

“ Ho,” she answered, curtly. 

When, irritated by her tone, he asked, “ Are you 
vexed with me, aunt, for any reason ?” 

19 * 


222 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


She answered, no, Jack, not with yon. I 

am vexed with myself. I was a little short-sighted, 
— foolish.” 

“ How ?” asked Jack, in a low tone. An un- 
comfortable presentiment began to dawn upon him. 

“ Oh, you need not know everything !” she re- 
plied again, in the harsh tone which she had never 
used to him until that day. 

His forebodino: was confirmed. Yet at the same 
time the change in her manner ceased to anger 
him. He had guessed the source of her anxieties. 

“ Do you intend to continue your art-studies in 
London or in Paris ?” asked Mrs. Winter, some- 
what abruptly, after a short pause. 

‘‘ In Paris, aunt, of course,” replied Jack ; “ there 
can be no indecision on that point. In the first 
place, it would be unpleasant for me to be obliged 
to economize in London.” 

He hesitated : he had touched a sensitive spot ; 
to speak of economy seemed like undervaluing 
the generous kindness his aunt had shown him. 
Then he went on, hurriedly : ‘‘Of course I shall 
economize as much as I can ; you understand, aunt, 
that I would not willingly cost you a penny more 
than is absolutely necessary.” 

“ Yes, yes, yes !” replied Mrs. Winter ; “ but so 
long as I live there is no cause to be parsimonious. 
If your four hundred pounds do not suffice, they 
are not the limit of everything. True, it will be 
better for you to accustom yourself betimes to a 
modest style of living, for, as I said, after my 
death ” 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


223 


‘‘ Don’t talk about such horrible things,” inter- 
rupted J ack. I hope that, long before you leave 
this world, I shall be able to dispense with your 
generous aid. Surely my art ought soon to be 
able to afford me a support.” 

‘‘We will hope so.” The old lady took up her 
teacup. 

“ That has grown cold. I’ll make you a fresh 
one,” Jack proposed. 

“ Oh, never mind ; I like it lukewarm. H’m ! — 
h’m ! — h’m !” She cleared her throat several times, 
and at last said, “ Well, Jack, when do you intend 
to set to work seriously ? When do you mean to 
go to Paris ?” 

The young man’s face crimsoned. “ To-mor- 
row !” he exclaimed, trying to spring to his feet. 
Mrs. Winter held him firmly by both shoulders. 

“ E’onsense ! Don’t be so hasty, so quick to take 
offence. There is no occasion for it. You know 
how warmly I love you. I shall miss you terribly. 
But it is no advantage to you to spend your days 
thus on the strand of life with two women while 
the broad river flows by. Do you remember the 
lecture I gave you last autumn ? Then the grippe 
was lurking in your veins; that afterwards ex- 
plained the cause of your apathy. But now you 
have recovered from this horrible disease. I have 
allowed time enough for your convalescence, ilow 
away with you; the sooner the better. Plunge 
into the stream of life and see how it bears you 
on.” 

After a short re very Jack roused himself and 


224 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


answered, ‘‘You are right, aunt; I will go. Fll 
pack my knapsack this very week.’’ Then he 
paused a moment before asking, “ Did no letters 
come during my illness ?” 

“Yes, business letters. Mary has them; she 
will give them to you. We kept them lest they 
should excite you.” 

“ Because you knew that they contained no pleas- 
ant tidings,” replied Jack, in a tone half laughing, 
half bitter. “ Bills, nothing hut bills.” 

After a time he began again : “ Didn’t my Paris 
landlord write? I owe him the last six months’ 
rent. Of course I must try to get rid of that luxu- 
rious studio. Unfortunately, I took a three years’ 
lease.” 

Mrs. Winter seized the poker and began to stir 
the fire vigorously. 

“ Yes, we have already talked that matter over,” 
she answered; “but it is easily arranged: Mary 
will rent the studio herself. She says nothing 
could he more opportune. I believe she has al- 
ready had some correspondence with your landlord 
about it.” 

“Indeed!” said Jack, slowly. “H’m! and has 
not my American art-dealer been heard from ?” 

“ Your art-dealer ?” observed his aunt, thought- 
fully. “ Do you owe him anything ?” 

“ Ten thousand francs,” Jack murmured. 

“He must have forgotten you,” replied Mrs. 
Winter. Then she added, refiectively, “ An Amer- 
ican did call here during your illness. I remember 
finding his card when I came down from your 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


225 


room. It was just at tlie time you were suffering 
most. I had forgotten him. Mary received him.’’ 

“ Indeed ! — Mary !” repeated Jack. ‘‘ Mary ! 
Mary seems to have smoothed all the rough places 
in my business affairs,” he muttered; and then 
added, She is a splendid girl ; if I — if I could 
only show my gratitude.” 

An awkward pause followed. Mrs. Winter took 
off her spectacles and cleaned the glasses. Jack 
cleared his throat and tried several times to speak, 
but could not finish either of his sentences. 

Mrs. Winter seemed to find the situation uncom- 
fortable. After a short time she rose and left the 
room, saying, I can’t idle away all my time with 
you. I — I must write some letters.” 

Jack remained alone. At first he stirred the 
fire with the poker, then walked up and down the 
apartment, and finally sat down at the piano and 
began to drum the melody of “ Auld Hobin Gray” 
on the keys with one finger. An odor of cam- 
phor, a breath of keen wintry air, suddenly swept 
across his cheeks with a pleasant sense of cool- 
ness. He glanced around. Mary, still in her hat 
and sealskin coat, was standing on the threshold. 
She had brought the fresh air with her from the 
street. 

“How do you do, Mary? How late you are!” 
he hastily exclaimed, in an embarrassed, exagger- 
atedly cordial manner. He had lost the reins of 
self-control and was trying to grasp them. 

“ Isn’t mother here ?” asked Mary, advancing a 
little farther into the room. 


P 


226 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


She went away a moment ago to write 
some letters.” 

“ Fll look for her,” remarked Mary. 

Before Jack could make up his mind whether to 
detain her or not she herself changed her intention, 
and, coming to the hearth, said, — 

“ But first I should like a cup of tea.” 

“ The tea is cold. I’ll make a fresh cup for you.” 

“ Can you ?” asked Mary, almost archly. 

“ Oh, you shall see !” he answered. He was glad 
to do something ; he felt that the decisive moment 
in his life had come. We always feel a desire to 
defer it. 

The tea was ready. Jack filled a cup for his 
cousin. She paid him several jesting compliments 
on the excellence of his brew. Jack did not hear. 
He knew that he must express some gratitude for 
the great kindness and thoughtfulness she had 
shown him. At last he began : ‘‘ Mary, you know 
that you — ah, how shall I say it ? — I mean — that 
I — that I feel a little ashamed — deeply ashamed ! 
How can I discharge my debts to you ?” 

Mary set her teacup down. Her face crim- 
soned ; she looked pretty, and the slowly gathering 
dusk lent her fair face an added charm. “ I don’t 
know what you are talking about,” she answered. 

“ Oh, Mary !” He moved a little nearer and 
took her hand in his. ‘‘Your mother has told 
me ” 

“ My mother did very wrong to tell you anj- 
thing!” cried Mary, more impetuously than usual. 

“Why, it was natural that I should inquire 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


227 


about the letters which had come during my ill- 
ness, and afterwards ask who had soothed the im- 
portunity of the few creditors whom my means, 
in the final break-up of my affairs, were not suffi- 
cient to satisfy,’’ replied Jack. 

Mary’s blush deepened, and she turned her head 
away. More than a minute elapsed ere she again 
faced her cousin. “ Let us settle these foolish mat- 
ters and put an end to them once for all,” she 
said. “You know how unjust my father’s will 
was. It is a commentary on our legislation that 
such a thing was possible in England. In it he 
bequeathed all my step-mother’s fortune to us two 
girls. I never considered myself the owner of this 
money, and if I have now relieved you from cer- 
tain embarrassments, it was done with my step- 
mother’s property, which I manage, and for which 
she herself could have found no use more satis- 
factory.” 

Jack was amazed at the delicacy with which 
Mary arranged the awkward situation. He had 
not expected so much tact to be blended with her 
stiff prudery, for he did not suspect how far above 
her usual height of feeling, at least for the mo- 
ment, love can bear even the coldest woman. 
Perhaps he had not yet clearly perceived that 
Mary was in love with him, at least he had done 
his best to leave himself in doubt. 

With the imprudence to which emotion leads 
any really chivalrous man who feels deep gratitude 
to a girl. Jack exclaimed, “ Mary ! May God 
grant me the possibility of discharging my prosaic 


228 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


material debt to you ! Perhaps I may succeed in 
making some return for what you have done for 
me, but the way of rendering the service, that — 
that I can never repay, unless you will permit me 
to devote my whole life to you.’’ 

He paused suddenly, as if startled by his own 
words, and hastily added, “ But, of course, in my 
present circumstances, that is out of- the question.” 
Again he paused ; he felt the lameness of his re- 
treat. His breath came in gasps ; he would gladly 
have run away, yet he knew that he could do 
nothing save await her decision. There was a mo- 
ment of panic, followed by the consoling thought, 
surely she will not, she cannot accept my hand as 
payment on account of my obligations to her. 
Then came the old depressing lassitude, a sense 
of indifference ; either way youth was dead, life 
lay behind him. Then Mary raised her drooping 
head, and, with a radiant glance, held out both 
hands. “ Why should it be out of the question ?” 
she asked; ‘‘must my few shillings prevent us 
from being happy ? I’ll give them all to you, that, 
from this day, you can no longer reproach me 
with them.” 

He did what he was obliged to do under the cir- 
cumstances, took her in his arms and kissed her. 
But even at that moment of rapturous emotion he 
felt the rigidity of her whole figure. 

The door opened, Mrs. Winter entered. A low 
cry of horror escaped her lips. It was too late. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


229 


YL 

The wedding took place in mid- April ; a very 
simple wedding, celebrated, according to the wish 
of both bride and bridegroom, in the little Prot- 
estant church where Jack had dreamed away so 
many Sunday hours. 

During the ceremony Mary was deeply moved ; 
Jack felt somewhat sleepy, yet glad that it was 
over at last. He carried with him from the church 
the conviction that he would now be a sedate mar- 
ried man, who henceforth would shun all follies. 
He even felt no disposition to commit them. 
Every emotion was hushed within him. Hever 
did bridegroom leave a church at the side of his 
young wife with more phlegmatic indifference. 
His blood flowed rather more slowly through his 
veins than usual. Yet he was filled with the no- 
blest feelings and best intentions. He meant to 
make Mary very happy, which, as he said to him- 
self, could not be difiicult, as he asked nothing 
more from life. 

Scarcely had he pursued this thought to the end 
when he realized how monstrous his inference 
really was! A warm sympathy for the young 
creature who was united to him overcame him. 
He passed his hand across his brow, and his breath 
20 


230 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


came more slowly. "Why should he think, just at 
this moment, how totally different his feelings 
would have been if, instead of Mary 

His brain whirled. To atone for the sin com- 
mitted in his thoughts, he clasped Mary’s hand 
and raised it to his lips. 

After returning home they entered the pretty 
sitting-room looking out upon the garden, where 
was enacted the touching scene which must be per- 
formed after every wedding, — all the members of 
the family kissed one another. Jack was not quite 
sure whether he kissed Mary or Sarah ; in his ab- 
sence of mind and exuberance of good-will he even 
kissed his brother-in-law, the musical room-deco- 
rator, which, as it is not the custom in England for 
men to kiss each other, created some little amaze- 
ment. Mary, who was in an excited mood, laughed 
at it, and Jack grew embarrassed. The only really 
affectionate kiss which he gave that memorable 
morning was bestowed on his Aunt Jane, who, 
greatly agitated by the universal family embracing, 
stood a little apart, very erect in her old-fashioned 
pearl-gray silk dress, thick enough to stand alone, 
and trimmed with yellow Honiton lace perfumed 
with lavender. She held in her convulsively 
clasped hands a white lace handkerchief, and her 
features wore an expression of tenderness blended 
with ill-repressed anxiety. 

Directly after the breakfast the young couple- 
were to set out on their journey to Folkstone, via 
Eolkstone to Ostend, thence by way of Brussels 
across Germany to Italy. This was the wedding- 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


231 


tour planned by Mary according to the most ap- 
proved models. Jack had quietly assented to all 
his bride’s proposals. 

They were obliged to wait for breakfast, — to wait 
a whole hour. Jack had no better idea what to do 
with his time than any of the others present. Sev- 
eral congratulatory telegrams arrived. Mary opened 
them with trembling fingers and glowing cheeks. 
She was pleased that even formal acquaintances 
showed so sincere an interest in her happiness. 

Jack was very indifferent. He entered into 
elaborate explanations that congratulations were 
merely official formalities, — there was no heart in 
them. Letters of condolence, on the contrary, were 
usually sincere. The nobler impulses of the hu- 
man soul were not sufficiently cultivated to rejoice 
sincerely in our neighbors’ good fortune. Interest 
in our neighbors’ fate first became genuine where 
there was no room for envy. Pity was the only 
real form of sympathy, because it usually went 
hand in hand with malice. 

In the midst of this unpleasant banter a telegram 
of congratulation was received from Sir Bryan and 
Lady Clara Ferrars, who were in Italy. It was 
very long, contained phrases unusually warm for 
cool English manners, and closed with the words. 
We hope to meet the young couple on their wed- 
ding-journey through Italy.” 

‘‘ There, Jack ! How tell me whether there are 
not some noble human beings who rejoice with all 
their hearts in our happiness !” cried Mary, trium- 
phantly. 


232 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


Jack made no reply. This demonstration from 
his relatives afforded him little pleasure. Every 
word seemed to say, ‘‘ How delighted my brother 
is to he relieved from any further responsibility 
on my account ! How glad he feels that he need 
have no further anxiety about paying my debts or 
being compelled to blush for my shabbiness !” At 
the same moment he perceived for the first time 
what an impression his marriage must make, not 
only upon his nearest relatives but on the world 
in general. He had settled down and provided for 
himself. 

The blood mounted to his cheeks, furious rage 
seemed fairly to choke him, — rage against all who 
ventured to view the step he had taken from this 
stand-point. He himself, he could swear, had not 
thought for a single instant of improving his cir- 
cumstances when he wooed Mary. He had — ^yes, 
what had he really intended? Hothing at all. 
Everything had come about by chance. 

The wedding-breakfast did not yet appear. Sir 
Bryan’s telegram passed from Mary’s hands, which 
fairly trembled with delight, to her sister’s. 

“ That really is beautiful !” Sarah murmured ; 
“ really like kinspeople, — h’m ! And did they send 
you a handsome present, too, Mary ?” 

‘‘ Oh, yes ; some very pretty emeralds, — ^beautiful 
gems.” 

“ Indeed ! Show them to me !” the supporter 
of temperance urged her sister. 

Mary went to get the ornament. When she 
brought it Sarah fell into a sort of ecstasy at the 


A LEAFLESS SPRING, 


233 


sight of the green stones resting on the white vel- 
vet lining of the case. 

The jewels were really beautiful. In his delight 
at the saving of expense to him secured by his 
brother’s marriage, Sir Bryan had considered it a 
duty to be generous to this brother’s bride. 

After long and careful examination of the gems, 
Sarah remarked, I suppose you’ll wear them when 
you go to court ?” 

I haven’t thought yet about going to court,” 
replied Mary, with a glance at Jack, who was lean- 
ing wearily back in a chair. 

“But of course Lady Clara will present you,” 
said Sarah, who still held the jewels in her hands, 
sighing heavily. 

“ Do you think so. Jack ?” asked Mary, approach- 
ing her husband and stroking his cheeks. 

“ Why, certainly, if you go,” Jack answered. 

“ You would wrong me if you thought I aspired 
to be presented at court from — from — ambition,” 
Mary hastened to assure him. “ Of course I should 
like to fill the position I occupy as your wife as 
well as possible, but only on your account ; so far 
as I am concerned, I shall find my heaven any- 
where with you, Jackie. In a secluded cottage in 
Devonshire — the country is so beautiful there — or 
in a little palace in Park Lane, — I have no choice. 
Where do you intend to live, in the country or in 
London ?” 

“ I don’t know ; I haven’t decided yet ; for the 
present we will travel,” Jack answered. 

“Yet some plan must be formed,” remarked 
20 * 


234 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


Sarah, sententiously, as she at last closed the case 
of emeralds. There are two points to he consid- 
ered : you will he more exposed to the temptations 
of Satan in fashionable society than elsewhere, — 
I mean the temptations of pleasure-seeking and 
vanity. If you are afraid of yielding, then avoid 
the gay world. But if you feel strong enough 
to resist these allurements, seek it. It is your 
duty. Seek it in order to lead those who are 
blinded by its glitter into the light of eternal truth. 
There is no greater merit in imparting religious 
ideas to the Hottentots or the proletarians of the 
East End of London than in bringing the well- 
bred barbarians of the circles in which you will 
move to a proper realization of the seriousness of 
life, and of death.” 

Sarah had spoken in a raised voice, with eyes 
uplifted to heaven ; she had unconsciously adopted 
the tone and bearing which she formerly assumed 
to impress her audience when making her addresses 
on the platform. 

Bray clasped his hands admiringly and mur- 
mured, “ Well said; really, very well said.” 

Sarah was in full swing: ‘^Go into the world 
as a missionary, to preach the old gospel in a new 
form, to spread abroad the great ideas of temper- 
ance, from which alone the regeneration of the 
world can be expected.” 

‘‘ An extremely happy expression !” said Bray. 

Sarah continued to exhort from an imaginary 
platform: “Yes, the grand idea of temperance 
will regenerate the world, stand sponsor as it were 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


235 


for mankind a second time. Asceticism is a ster- 
ilizing monstrosity; temperance is bestowed by 
nature and is fruitful. The roots of modern evils 
— believe me — are alcoholism and vanity!” She 
paused and gazed around the circle. 

“ Magnificent ! The spirit of your mission has 
taken powerful hold of you to-day!” cried Bray. 

‘‘Yes, yes! I feel it!” said Sarah; then turning 
to Mary, she added, “ K you are presented at court 
you must try to arrange for me to deliver an ad- 
dress in the presence of the queen.” 

J ack made a terrible grimace. Mary stroked 
his head. 

“ What is the matter. Jack ?” she asked. “ You 
look so pale. I am almost afraid that you will 
have a relapse.” She looked anxiously at him. 

“ Yes,” he murmured, through his clinched 
teeth, “ I almost believe I shall.” 

“ Oh, don’t have such gloomy thoughts !” said 
Sarah, sagely. “ Perhaps it is only a little spring- 
fever, which is now stirring in all nature, even in 
the dead wood ; hear how the furniture creaks ! I 
could scarcely sleep last night ; it seemed as if I 
heard pistol-shots all around me.” 

Jack bent his head; his fingers were tightly 
interlaced, and he clasped and unclasped them 
convulsively. Spring-fever ! Spring-fever ! The 
word struck him like a blow. “ Isn’t breakfast 
served yet ?” he said, in an irritated tone, turning 
to his young wife. 

Twenty-four hours had passed, twenty-four more. 


236 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


— a whole week had elapsed since Jack Ferrars 
had put the wedding-ring on Mary Winter’s 
finger. 

He had striven honestly to do his duty. It was 
not without a certain sense of satisfaction that he 
had found the momentary excitement occasioned 
by his marriage yielding anew to the dull indif- 
ference and listlessness which had led to it. He 
entered into all his young wife’s suggestions, cared 
for her comfort as men of his breeding are accus- 
tomed to do for any lady with whom they travel, 
provided for her amusement, attended her in the 
daytime to the art-exhibitions in the cities which 
they visited, and in the evenings went with her to 
the theatre. He endured her caresses, nay, tried 
to return them. He let her drag him about to the 
shops, and patiently carried small parcels home for 
her. In short, he did everything which could be 
expected of a dutiful young husband. 

So they went on from city to city towards the 
South. Mary wrote rapturous letters concerning 
all the splendors she saw with Jack, and gave her 
step-mother a detailed account of the happiness of 
her honey-moon. Only, she added at the end of 
every letter. Jack was still far from well ; he looked 
pale and weak, had a poor appetite, but she hoped 
all these symptoms would vanish as soon as he 
reached the South. She hoped so much from the 
South ! He would surely recover there ; they were 
going to loiter from one beautiful place to another, 
and if it should grow too warm, seek refuge at an 
especially picturesque sea-side resort. For — on 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


237 


this point she was fully determined — she would 
not return home until Jack had entirely regained 
his health. 

Mrs. Winter read the letters with a vague sense 
of anxiety; the young husband’s persistent de- 
pression confirmed all her fears. 

Meanwhile, the pair journeyed on, farther and 
farther towards the South, and spite of Jack’s resist- 
ance, the constant change of scene, the excitement 
of visiting the various art-collections, the observa- 
tion of the slight variations which, in these levelling 
days, distinguish the customs of one country from 
those of another, did their work. He grew more 
cheerful, his interest awakened, he looked — past 
his wife into Grod’s wide world ; he began to make 
plans for the future. , Then he suddenly heard at 
his side a woman’s high, shrill voice saying, ‘‘ A 
penny for your thoughts, Jackie.” 

And to save himself the trouble of invention, 
he answered, with the jest hallowed by its an- 
tiquity, “ They are not worth a penny. I was 
thinking of you.” 

She was content with the reply, embraced and 
kissed him, and life pursued the even tenor of its 
course. 

Spring loitered on its way ; it seemed to grow 
colder and colder every day. The earth was brown 
and the branches were bare ; the green shimmer 
hovering around them would not unfold. An icy 
wind blew, stifiing all life in the hud. Jack and 
Mary had passed through the Tyrol in a white 


238 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


whirl of snow-flakes, which fell cold and mute 
upon the ground. In many places the engines 
had difficulty in forcing a passage through the 
masses of snow heaped up by the wind. The train 
which was bearing them southward rushed along 
between two high, smoke-blackened walls of snow. 
Each sat in a corner, muffied in furs. Erom time 
to time the young wife clasped one of her hus- 
band’s hands or tried to attract his attention by 
some tender glance. He answered these loving 
demonstrations by a mechanical movement of the 
lips, which he had adopted during the honey-moon 
weeks. He asked if it would be unpleasant for 
her if he kept the window open. She laughingly 
shook her head, and answered that when she sat 
opposite to him she always felt as if the sun was 
shining into her face. 

The air blew against him, cold and keen, — a 
chilling wintry air. Of the beautiful land of the 
Tyrol he saw nothing, at least nothing except two 
smoke-blackened walls of snow between which the 
train rushed on. Until darkness closed in, he 
gazed steadily at the monotonous white masses 
and inhaled the icy air. Hot until he heard Mary 
cough did he notice that it was time to shut the 
window. 

Then he arranged a couch for his bride, kissed 
her, patted her on the shoulder, smoothed the silk- 
covered cushion under her cheek ; in short, behaved 
exactly as a pattern young husband should ; after 
which he leaned back in his corner and, as usual, 
strove to think of nothing. But this was less easy 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


239 


than might have been expected. Thoughts came 
whether he desired them or not ; he began to plan 
his future life. 

Of course he would settle in Paris ; the atmos- 
phere was stimulating to an artist. So far as his 
residence was concerned he would be guided in the 
choice of location, arrangement of rooms, furni- 
ture, etc., solely by Mary’s wishes, — only he must 
insist on one thing, he must have a studio away 
from his home. He said nothing about this now, 
for once, when he had mentioned that he thought 
it better to keep his workshop separate from his 
dwelling, Mary had started up, exclaiming, “ Oh, 
Jackie ! My darling ! How horrible ! I really 
couldn’t bear not being able to run in and em- 
brace you ten times an hour !” 

“ That would be very charming,” replied Jack, 
“ but not exactly helpful to my work. To become 
a superior artist a man must keep aloof from even 
the pleasantest diversions while devoting himself 
to his professional labor, and concentrate all his 
powers of thought and feeling upon his work.” 

“ But why need you become a superior artist, so 
long as you are a happy man ?” Mary had answered, 
pouting, while she threw her arms around his neck 
and kissed him. He was startled by the vehe- 
mence of her caresses. When he married her, he 
had expected to have at his side a quiet, sensible 
life-partner, who, not being inclined to tender dem- 
onstrations herself, would expect none from him. 
He had reckoned without his host. 

The little conversation now returned to his 


240 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


memory as he was planning his future life. His 
brain fairly reeled. Ho, deeply as he felt his obli- 
gations to his wife, he could not yield this point, — 
he must be undisturbed while at work. But sup- 
pose she should insist ? The blood seethed in his 
veins, rose and fell. His hands grew icy cold, yet 
his finger-tips burned. Great Heaven ! What did 
this mean ? whence came this feeling of despair ? 
He had already begun to grow accustomed to his 

wife, and to-day He sighed heavily. So long 

as she was his betrothed bride, so long as her 
reserve towards him touched him, all was well ; 
now — now 

But she would become quieter, and he must 
learn to prize her ; she was worthy of it. He began 
to enumerate her good qualities; there was a long 
inventory. He had not completed the list of her 
merits when his thoughts grew confused. He fell 
asleep. He dreamed of tangled, exciting scenes ; 
broken reminiscences of long-forgotten events 
blended together in his mind ; then a breath of 
warm life suddenly mingled with these dull, op- 
pressive images. The exquisite figure of Angio- 
lina appeared before him, though indistinctly, as 
if veiled by a white mist. He strove to approach 
her, but could not ; he seemed rooted to the earth 
unable to stir. This lasted a long time. All at 
once the gray veil which separated her from him 
vanished, and he beheld her clearly in her superb, 
melancholy, yearning beauty. She began to move, 
— held out her arms to him, — he clasped her in his 
own. Her lips hovered over his without touching 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


241 


them. It seemed as if he were dying of longing 
for those lips which he could not find. How — 
now he felt her kiss burn on his closed lids. Gid- 
diness overpowered him. He strove to hold her, — 
|draw her closely to him, and at the same time 
open his eyes and gaze his fill. She had vanished, 
and everything grew fiery-red, — blood-red. 

A jerk, — ^the shrill ringing of bells ; he woke, — 
the sun had been scorching his eyes. Where was 
he ? What had happened ? Where were the ice- 
flowers which had veiled the windows ? Melted 
into tears, which, trickling down the panes, dropped 
upon the greenish-brown carpet of the railway 
carriage. And the walls of snow ? Jack looked 
out. What was this ? Spring, the wondrous, glee- 
ful, sun-steeped spring was before him. An Ital- 
ian village, surrounded by trees laden with white 
blossoms, and in the background frowning moun- 
tains covered with shimmering tints of green. 
Spring ! spring ! 

Jack gazed in mingled ecstasy and dread. His 
breathing was labored, and the blood pulsed hotly 
in his veins. 

Youth had waked within his soul. Just at that 
moment he felt an arm around his neck, a breath 
on his cheek. ‘‘ How beautiful ! How beautiful, 
Jack ! Hature has adorned herself in honor of our 
love.” Mary was standing at his side. But, for 
the first time since his marriage, he could not force 
himself to return her caress. A horrible feeling 
stifled him. He realized that his repugnance to 
his wife was unconquerable. Why had he mar- 
'L q 21 


242 


A LEAFLJESS SPRING. 


ried ! Instead of holding to his lips the glowing 
beaker of love, he had wearily swallowed a sleep- 
ing potion. But the potion did not work. And 
suddenly he heard the wailing refrain of the melody 
which had floated to his ears through the warm 
evening air at Meudon ; he saw Angiolina’s eyes, 
he inhaled the fragrance of the glycine mingled 
with the odor of the freshly-chopped logs, and 
heard distinctly, more and more distinctly, “ Qu’as- 
tu fait, qu’as-tu fait de ta jeunesse !” 

The reign of spring grew more and evident 
in the land, — no such wealth of bloom was ever 
remembered, even in Italy, nothing like this lux- 
uriance of leafage which, after being repressed 
by the unusual length of the wintry cold, now 
suddenly leaped forth towards the sun. From sta- 
, tion to station the vegetation grew richer, the fra- 
grance heavier, the air warmer. How wonderful 
it all is ! — these Italian cities with their weather- 
beaten, gray magnificence, around which saucy 
youth winds freshly blooming roses, the stately, 
majestic palaces and churches, and the bright 
picturesque beauty at their feet. And flowers 
everywhere, — white acacia-trees rising above con- 
vent walls green with mould, roses garlanding 
slender marble columns, iris and deep-red poppies 
growing amid the tall grass in secluded cloister 
court-yards, cut flowers in baskets of woven willow 
dripping with water, offered to foreigners, withered 
blossoms lying trampled on the pavement. And 
everything is fragrant, — such fragrance, such never- 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


243 


to-be forgotten fragrance, — ^tbe perfume of Italian 
cities in May, a subtle odor of ancient masonry, 
wax-candles, incense, mould, roses, acacias, and 
iris, — all blended with the sultry spring mist which 
rises from the earth and overarched by the gray 
sirocco clouds. 

“ How wonderfully beautiful it all is, and how 
one might enjoy it !” Jack said to himself. 

But he enjoyed nothing. In the midst of this 
paradise he walked with drooping head, his mind 
ever occupied by the one thought : ‘‘ If only it 
were all over 

But it will never be over, — at least not soon ; it 
may last thirty or forty years yet, always living on 
and on like a galley-slave, dragging the heavy 
leaden ball to the end ! 

Jack felt a constant longing to run, to move 
swiftly, abruptly, upset, destroy something ; yet he 
laid his hand on his.brow and asked himself, Am 
I crazy, or am I on the verge of it ?” and calmed 
himself, resolutely controlled himself, strove to do 
his duty, and had not uttered a single impatient 
word to Mary since he left at her side the ,church 
where his execution had taken place. 

In reply to Mary’s anxious questions why he 
looked so pale and troubled, he answered, untir- 
ingly, It’s the sirocco.” 

And it was the sirocco, — ^the sirocco ! the demon 
of the spring ! 

Poor Jack ! 

It is in Bologna. Forty-eight hours ago they 


244 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


reached the Hotel Brun, where Herr Frank re- 
ceived them at the entrance, holding in his hand 
a long list of all who had secured rooms by a 
telegram ; the Ferrars were on the list. 

Herr Frank affably informed them that he had 
reserved a room for them, a splendid apartment on 
the second story, and a small one for the maid. In 
reply to Jack’s angry question why there was only 
one when he had ordered, as usual, a bedchamber 
and parlor, Herr Frank answered that the number 
of applicants had been too great ; for the present 
it was unfortunately impossible; perhaps during 
the next few days there might he changes; at 
present 

Mary interposed by lightly patting Jack’s arm 
and whispering, “ What does it matter, dear ?” 

And Jack realized that he was on the point of 
making a scene without rhyme or reason, and let 
the matter drop. 

For forty-eight hours they had lived together in 
the Hotel Brun in a single room. Hever before 
had Jack been so entirely unable to escape his 
wife, even for a moment ; never had the compul- 
sory tenderness imposed by his situation been so 
heavy a burden. 

So long as they had a sitting-room at their dis- 
posal he could escape from Mary’s society for half 
an hour, could rest while she wrote her letters — 
thank heaven, she was in the habit of writing very 
long letters — and while she was dressing. But now 
he could not call a single moment his own. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


245 


It was after dinner, — of course they had eaten 
theirs at a small table away from the long one, — a 
small table which, in honor of their newly-wedded 
state, perhaps betrayed to him by the maid, per- 
haps by the fresh appearance of their luggage, the 
attentive landlord had adorned with a bouquet of 
roses. How they were seated under the colonnade 
beside the entrance into the court-yard of the old 
Palazzo Malvasi, whence the Hotel Brun rose. 
The wan May twilight — a mere whitish-gray mist 
— floated through the air, dimmed the colors of 
the two flags above the portal, and flung a light 
veil over the little Japanese climbing roses, whose 
deep-red and clear-white blossoms appeared amid 
the delicate tremulous foliage clinging to the pillars. 

Mary had arrayed herself for the meal in a- light- 
blue blouse, which she wore with an ordinary gray 
woollen skirt, — a silk blouse with a travel-worn 
woollen skirt is the table-d’hote style adopted by 
all Englishwomen. Jack said so to himself, as he 
fixed his eyes on her. She was exactly like all the 
Englishwomen of a certain class, all Englishwomen 
who belong to the world of boredom, — the world 
of the educated middle classes. Exquisitely neat, 
well cared for, highly educated, well-bred, well-read, 
narrow-minded, a trifle stunted both physically and 
mentally, prudish, cool, a pattern of reserve to the 
lover, but to the husband tender to obtrusiveness, 
— ay, and to what a degree of obtrusiveness ! 

Jack secretly wondered whether all women were 
so persistent, whether a few of them, at least, did 
not wait for some demonstration of affection on the 
21 * 


246 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


husband’s part, and show, even after marriage, a 
certain degree of reserve, partly from modesty, 
partly — ^yes, partly from coquetry ? 

Mary had no idea of coquetry towards Jack, but 
she was equally ignorant of the value of reserve. 

He was her husband, her property; she had a 
right to him and his caresses. 

Absorbed in these reflections. Jack silently drank 
his coffee, — Mary took none. She only cast loving 
glances at him and smiled, which, thanks to her 
prominent teeth, was not very becoming. 

Formerly, he had never been annoyed by these 

prominent teeth, now He could not see 

Mary’s mouth without dreading a kiss. How 
often he had felt those teeth on his lips ! 

“ How dull you are, dear !” she said, jestingly, 
after a time, tapping his hand ; ‘‘ we have been 
sitting here fifteen minutes, and you haven’t 
spoken a word yet.” 

‘‘ Hothing specially brilliant has occurred to me, 
and I didn’t want to bore you with stupid sayings,” 
Jack replied. 

Oh, you goose !” cried Mary; then after a short 
pause she added, Have you arranged any plan 
for the rest of our journey? Where shall we go 
from here ?” 

“To Florence, of course ! People always go to 
Florence from Bologna,” replied Jack. 

“ Yes, but we don’t wish to stay in Florence.” 

“ Why not ?” asked Jack, carelessly. 

“ In the first place, we both know the city thor- 
oughly,” Mary remarked, positively. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


247 


Speak for yourself, Mary,” returned Jack, 
phlegmatically; “ I couldn’t say so. I spent six 
weeks in Florence, but I merely know enough to 
make me long to see it again.” 

“ Six weeks !” Mary repeated, in surprise. “ You 
must have had very bad weather, or — or you went 
into society too much. We were there only six 
days, and I believe we really saw everything.” 

‘‘Which is recorded in Murray,” murmured 
Jack, half under his breath. 

“ Oh, you naughty, sarcastic fellow !” cried 
Mary, first shaking her finger roguishly at him, 
then seizing him tenderly by the arm and shaking 
him. “ But no matter whether I know Florence 
thoroughly or not, it wouldn’t be desirable to 
remain there long just now. There is a terrible 
epidemic of typhus fever ; all the foreigners are 
avoiding it.” 

“ So much the better ; at least we shan’t he com- 
pelled to live in one room when we engaged two,” 
cried Jack. Then, startled at his own remark, he 
added, “ Are you afraid of the fever, Mary ?” 

“ ITot for myself,” replied the young wife, “ but 
I should fear it for you, and you would for me, I 
know that, you naughty man, in spite of your bad 
jokes.” 

“ Yes, of course, of course !” Jack babbled this 
like a lesson learned by rote. Then he saw by 
Mary’s expression that she expected some demon- 
stration from him. He kissed her hand. “ You are 
perfectly right, perfectly right,” he hastily assured 
her ; “ I should never forgive myself — if you — if — 


248 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


that is — I mean I should never get over it. No, 
no, we must not challenge peril, — we won’t stay in 
Florence. Do you wish to go directly down to 
Dome ? I think that would be the best plan.” 

‘‘Yes, but — -just now — ^well, to he frank, just 
now I would rather not go to Dome.” 

“Why, the fever season doesn’t begin until 
June,” said Jack. 

“ Yes — ^hut — the Brays are there.” Mary laughed, 
with a slight shade of embarrassment. 

“ The Brays ? Who are the Brays ?” Jack raised 
his eyebrows in wonder. 

“ Sarah and her husband. Have you forgotten 
that the ex-house-painter” — Mary uttered the word 
very arrogantly — “ was named Bray ?” 

“Ah, yes; true. Isn’t he a house-painter now?” 
asked Jack. 

“ No.” 

“ Only his wife’s husband ?” 

“ I assure you that gives him plenty to do ; he is 
devoted to the cause, body and soul.” 

“ To what ?” asked Jack, with curling lip, — “ to 
Sarah ?” 

“ No ; to the cause, to Sarah’s mission. They 
both fly from one temperance meeting to another ; 
he writes out her speeches, attends to her corre- 
spondence, cares for her health, etc.” 

“ In short, he is the impresario of the Muse of 
Temperance,” said Jack, “ and they are sojourning 
at present in Dome. Ah!” 

“ Yes; she is to give three lectures there.’ 

“ But, my dear Mary,” observed Jack, “ I really 


A LEAFLESS SPRING, 


249 


don’t see why that should prevent our going to 
Home. I should find a great deal of amusement 
in attending one of these temperance lectures. Of 
course Impresario Bray gives the muse a glass of 
brandy to strengthen her before she goes on the 
platform.” 

. “ Jack, you are incorrigible !” cried Mary, per- 
fectly delighted with her husband’s jesting mood; 
“ but you see, I know it might be amusing to at- 
tend these lectures, if we were not among the 
lecturer’s nearest relatives.” 

“ The relationship doesn’t trouble me,” Jack 
answered, coldly, somewhat unjustly irritated by 
his wife’s aristocratic follies. 

JSTor me,” Mary hastened to assure him ; “ but 
— ^but, unfortunately, Sarah hasn’t a particle of tact. 
She would join us, — she would certainly expect us 
to take her to the embassy. I should like to go 
into society a little in Home — well, surely you 
understand ” 

“ Yes, I am beginning to understand a great 
many things,” Jack muttered ; then added, some- 
,what bluntly, “ Then where do you want to go ?” 

“ To Perugia, dear,” cooed Mary. 

“ To Perugia ! What attracts you to that pic- 
turesque spot, — the Peruginos — or the Hotel Bruf- 
fani ?” 

“ Perugia offers a remarkable union of artistic 
and rural beauty,” replied Mary. 

Again Jack muttered under his breath, “ Mur- 
ray.” 

It was the first time that he had been unable 


250 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


to conquer his feelings of impatience. But Mary 
had taken no offence ; with the extraordinary skill 
peculiar to women who are blindly in love, she 
always managed to justify his conduct. She merely 
repeated her former remark : ‘‘ Oh, you naughty, 
sarcastic fellow ! Don’t tease me perpetually about 
Murray. Murray is very nice. It contains a quan- 
tity of useful information. But, to be perfectly 
frank, it’s neither on account of the Perugino 
paintings nor for the sake of the beautiful scenery 
that I wish we could stay in Perugia, — no, but, as 
you know, your brother is there with his wife.” 

‘‘ That is another reason for avoiding Perugia. 
Bryan keeps me away, as Sarah drives you from 
Borne,” growled Jack. 

‘‘Ah, Jack, don’t be so resentful,” whispered 
Mary, clasping her hands around his arm. “ Let 
me make peace between you. It is not wholly 
unaccountable that your brother should not have 
been quite satisfied with you. But, since our mar- 
riage, he has let no opportunity pass without giving 
us some proof of his sympathy. Lady Clara has 
written me such a kind letter ; she is very anxious 
to meet us in Perugia.” 

“ Ah, so that’s the way the wind blows !” Jack 
muttered between his teeth. He could not bear 
to hear his brother’s name mentioned. “ So that’s 
the way the wind blows ! Ho, Mary, it can’t be. 
I’ll do what I can to please you, but to go to Peru- 
gia for an affectionate family meeting is out of the 
question. I am no hypocrite.” 

“But, Jack!” Mary murmured, plaintively, 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


251 


“ surely you understand that — that it would be 
pleasant for me to he on friendly terms with your 
nearest relatives. You always say that Lady Clara 
is so nice.^’ 

Clara is charming, but I don’t think you two 
will care much for each other,” replied Jack. 

A pause followed, then Mary asked, “ Have you 
drunk your coffee ?” 

Long ago,” he answered. 

“Well, then, we might go up-stairs; I should 
like to write a few letters.” 

J ack sighed. He could not bring himself to he 
shut up in the same room with Mary just at that 
moment. He must he alone a little while, — even 
were it only fifteen minutes. “ Go up ; I ” 

“ And what will you do ?” 

“ I — I’ll take a little walk.” 

“ Then I will go too !” cried Mary, promptly. 

Jack felt as if some one was scattering a hand- 
ful of hail-stones down his back. “ K you wish,” 
he murmured. 

This time Mary could not deceive herself in 
regard to his reluctance to accept her companion- 
ship. 

“ Well ; I don’t wish to he a burden to you,” she 
said, in an offended tone, passing by him on her 
way to the staircase. 

Tortured by the stings of conscience. Jack hur- 
ried after her. “ Why, Mary !” he cried, seizing 
her hand, hardly knowing at first how to apologize. 
Then a bright idea entered his head. “ Mary, 
haven’t you guessed why I wanted to go out alone ? 


252 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


Just once ? Your birthday comes next week — and 
I — saw something — ^which— — ” 

‘‘ Oh, you dear, kind Jack !” cried Mary, rap- 
turously. 

“ Well, another time don’t spoil my plan,” re- 
turned Jack, almost reprovingly. “ I was antici- 
pating so much pleasure in my little surprise.” 

“ Good-by, dear, good-by !” said Mary. Press- 
ing a kiss on his coat-sleeve as she passed, she ran 
up-stairs. He was alone. 

For a moment he stood bewildered, rooted to 
the earth, holding his little brown felt hat in his 
hand. He began to turn it round and round, won- 
dering, ‘‘ Why did I tell all those lies ?” and at the 
same time his own voice echoed in his ears, saying 
to Mary, ‘‘ I am no hypocrite !” 

Well, he certainly was no hypocrite by nature; 
if ever any one had a frank disposition it was he ; 
if ever any one found it diflSlcult to syllable even the 
smallest conventional lie it was he. But, good 
heavens ! — he realized it for the first time — ^by his 
marriage with Mary he had forfeited his right 
to be perfectly truthful ; the most sacred right of 
every individual, since it is connected with the 
freedom of the soul. How could he confess the 
truth to Mary, — admit that every caress he be- 
stowed upon her was the result of a self-conquest 
which daily became more difficult? Had he a 
right to allow Mary a glimpse of his real feelings, 
a right to say to her, “ I cannot love you ?” Ho, 
he must spare her ; as matters stood it was his duty 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 253 

to Spare her. He could do nothing except keep up 
her delusion by every means in his power. 

He would be forced to play the hypocrite all his 
life. If he sometimes carried this far enough to 
buy a moment’s rest it did not matter, he said to 
himself, and then shrank in horror at his own 
sophisms. Ho, it was a mistaken idea to confound 
the self-control which he was obliged to maintain 
towards Mary with hypocrisy. The self-control 
imposed by his sense of duty was far different from 
the hypocrisy which he summoned to the aid of 
his unauthorized desire for liberty. He wished to 
do his duty. He stamped violently, then sighed 
and shrugged his shoulders. What did the best 
intentions avail in such a case ! Ho man of his 
age could be satisfied with life as he had planned 
it, endure the burden he had taken upon himself, 
without becoming morally dishonest. The nervous 
irritation arising from spending every hour in the 
day with a person who affords us no intellectual 
aliment and is physically unsympathetic, is too 
great for us not to desire to cast off the restraint 
temporarily. And as this was impossible without 
falsehood and hypocrisy, he could not help being 
a little more false and hypocritical day by day. 
He would load his wife with attentions to strengthen 
her faith in his love, and use this faith to — to 


22 


254 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


YIL 

Meanwhile, he had gone out of the hotel into 
the warm spring twilight. Fragrance surrounded 
him — the perfume of flowers blended with a some- 
what mouldy exhalation common to all cities be- 
tween dusk and daylight — and music. All Bologna 
thrills with melody. There might be a horrible 
discord if the tunes mingled together, but no! 
As Jack walked on, hugging the wall closely to 
avoid brushing against the cars on the horse-rail- 
road, which with modern impertinence had wound 
its way into even the narrowest streets, he heard 
only a single air which, falling sweetly on his ears, 
dominated the chaotic dissonance of the distant 
medley, — now it was the love-sick melancholy of a 
ITeapolitan folk-song, sung by a woman’s voice to 
the accompaniment of a guitar, sometimes the 
bold sensuousness of one of the Strauss waltzes, 
played by a travelling Austrian quartette of stringed 
instruments. And amid the plashing of the great 
fountain of I^eptune echoed the monotonous tramp 
of human footsteps passing J ack. 

All Bologna was in the street. Wonderfully 
beautiful Italian women, save that they were a lit- 
tle too short, a shade too stout, with a slightly un- 
dulating gait, garments whose lack of taste was 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


255 


covered by the twilight, and black veils twisted 
fantastically around their heads, which lent a mag- 
ical charm to their pallid, passionate loveliness, 
moved to and fro, usually in pairs, surrounded by 
groups of cigarette-smoking masculine admirers, 
w’hose appearance was commonplace to a degree. 
The deep, musical tones of their contralto voices 
stirred Jack strangely; more than one of them 
raised her heavy eyelids, glancing at him vsdth a 
look which swept over his face like the slow, 
sultry sirocco. 

He quivered under these glances, which re- 
minded him of things he desired to forget. And 
amid the languishing Italians his eyes rested on 
his own countrywomen. How many of them he 
met ! Englishwomen belonging to the same half- 
stunted, half-cultured class as Mary, — Mary’s very 
image in gait, bearing, and dress ; slender and fla1> 
chested, with endless waists and no hips, without a 
single curve in their figures. How well he knew this 
t3^pe of womanhood ! — the inelastic gait, the long 
flat feet with badly-fitting shoes, the elbows held 
stifily back, — all were familiar, even the thin, well- 
bred voices. Their talk sounded like loud, hissing 
sounds strung on a breath. He shuddered. 

Turning from the colonnades with their cafes 
chaniants, their jewellers’ shops blazing with dia- 
monds, where he had hastily purchased a present 
for Mary, he went into the vast, deserted square 
and approached the cathedral, whose lofty nave 
and wide transepts sloping earthward made it re- 
semble a huge bird, which, resting momentarily 


256 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


on the ground, is preparing to rise again towards 
heaven. 

Absorbed in the mystical magnificence of the 
spectacle, Jack was standing silently before the 
house of Grod, when some one exclaimed, “ Why, 
Ferrars! So you are here. I thought I knew 
those shoulders.” 

Jack looked round, and, recognizing an old ac- 
quaintance, the little journalist Rambert, felt a 
sensation of sincere pleasure, not unmixed with a 
sense of discord. Did not Rambert remind him 
of all sorts of things ? The two men shook hands 
with each other. “You here; a Frenchman in 
Italy, and not jprix de Rome cried Jack. 

“Yes, the world has changed during the last 
few years, and the Frenchman too,” replied Ram- 
bert ; “ we now go to Bayreuth and Naples, learn 
German and murder Italian. H’m ! I am return- 
ing from a tour through the little Italian cities, 
and you, my dear fellow, if Fm not mistaken, are 
on your wedding-journey. I received the cards in 
Paris. You married your cousin. Miss Winter, I 
believe ?” 

“ Yes,” murmured Jack. 

“ A charming young girl, very charming ; I con- 
gratulate you, Ferrars. The time for wild oats is 
over.” 

“ Yes, evidently,” returned Jack. 

In the course of this conversation the journalist 
had drawn Jack out of the misty shadow of the 
cathedral into the glitter of light under the colon- 
nades, the realm of the cafe chantant music, where 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 257 

foreign and native ladies were slowly strolling to 
and fro. 

In front of the Cafe X. stood a hand-organ in 
the shape of a piano, one of those mechanical 
pianos which are such a nuisance in Bologna. 

This uncanny instrument pours forth with the 
monotonous regularity of a sewing-machine the 
most difficult pieces performed by virtuosos, never 
pausing an instant to take breath, harshly, shrilly, 
with giddy rapidity. It sounds like the playing 
of some crazy virtuoso who has lost all perception 
of gradations of sound while gaining a threefold 
degree of power and speed. Jack longed to stop 
his ears, hut as the Frenchman, talking incessantly 
of Paris and old acquaintances, asked him to sit 
down and eat an ice with him, he took a seat and 
ordered one. 

‘‘ Among other things, guess whom I met in the 
course of my Italian journey,’’ observed Pambert. 

‘‘ How could I ?” replied Jack, absently. 

One of your old flames.” 

“ One of my old flames ?” repeated Jack, slowly. 

‘‘Have you forgotten all of them, as is proper 
for a good husband ?” questioned the Frenchman, 
teasingly. 

Jack shrugged his shoulders. It was the sole 
answer of which he felt capable at the moment. 

“Yet you must try to recall this special flame. 
She was worthy of being held in remembrance,” 
replied Pamhert. 

“ Of whom are you speaking ?” asked Jack, 
slowly. He seemed to he wholly engrossed in 


258 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


shielding with his hand the flame of the match 
which he had just struck to light his cigar. 

“ Of whom ? Good heavens ! Of Angiolina ! 
Poor Angiolina!” murmured the Frenchman. 

Of Angiolina ?” Jack raised his eyebrows. 
What progress in hypocrisy he had made during 
the past two hours ! Ah, yes ; you mean the 
Italian about whom — ^when was it? — I made my- 
self so utterly ridiculous,” he said, still with the 
same drawling articulation and immovable face. 

Oh, don’t speak so contemptuously of her,” 
replied Kambert ; if you had seen her as I did, 
the mockery would have died on your lips.” 

Jack lighted a second match and bent over it. 
‘‘ Is she so badly off?” he asked. 

“ She is one of the most wretched creatures in 
the world.” 

“ How?” 

You have had the pleasure of making her ami- 
able husband’s acquaintance.” 

Jack knocked the ashes from the end of his 
cigar with the tip of his little finger. “ Yes,” he 
replied; “ and on that occasion I really did wonder 
a little at the good taste with which the poetic 
Angiolina had chosen her life-partner.” 

“ You were terribly severe on the poor woman,” 
said Rambert, who had evidently long since for- 
gotten his own cynical comments on the situation. 
“ I think, if you knew the story of her life, you 
would regret your cruelty.” 

“ The story of her life, — I do know it !” cried 
Jack. “ Sylvain told me.” 


A LEAFLIJSS SPRING. 


259 


“ What did he tell you 

“ Oh, various romantic, unpleasant things. Ac- 
cording to his account, Angiolina is a member of 
a good family, the daughter of a Marchese X. Y., 
and married Minelli after running away with this 
dissipated genius.” 

‘‘But that isn’t so, — I told him that myself. 
Minelli had made the statement to me ; but it isn’t 
true !” exclaimed Rambert, indignantly. 

“ Then what is the story ?” asked Jack, gruffly. 

“ Angiolina is the daughter of Prince Gandini, 
but not his legitimate child. Her mother was a 
Russian singer, who, after the girl’s birth, is said 
to have devoted herself solely to the prince, with 
whom she lived in the Gandini palace, where she 
received almost the same respect as a wedded 
wife. 

“Do you remember the great Palazzo in the 
Trastevere ? The court-yard faced the Tiber, and 
in one corner was a young Bacchante, which was 
sold to the Louvre two years ago. A Bacchante 
with a torn ” 

“ Oh, yes, I remember the Bacchante,” said 
Jack, rudely interrupting the prolix Frenchman ; 
“ but tell me something more about this wonder- 
ful Russian singer who received almost the same 
respect as a wedded wife.” 

“Almost the same respect as a wedded wife! 
Surely you know what that means ! That the ser- 
vants obeyed her orders, and the various young 
and old men who, in such cases, call at the house 
— of course, under these circumstances a woman 


260 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


must forego the society of her own sex — treated 
her courteously, without attempting to pay any 
lover-like attentions.” 

‘‘ That is a great deal for the companion of an 
Italian prince,” murmured Jack. 

‘‘I admit that,” said the Frenchman; ‘‘but she 
must, have been an exceptional woman, and old 
Gandini — he was quite old — seems to have been 
deeply attached to her. He had little Angiolina 
reared as if she were his legitimate daughter. 
Special care was bestowed on her musical train- 
ing. Her piano and singing teacher was a young 
composer named Philippo Minelli. You start, 
Ferrars. You have guessed. Yes, the same man. 
Whether, when scarcely more than a child, she 
was interested in him or not I do not know. 
Probably she does not now know herself. A love 
that has no present existence, as we are all aware, 
is a thing forgotten by women ; at any rate, he 
would never have won her for his wife had not 
wholly unforeseen circumstances arisen. Sapristi, 
Ferrars! there, — look yonder, — the lady in the 
gray dress, which she is certainly lifting a trifle 
higher than necessity requires, — did you ever see 
such tiny feet? She must be a Pussian or an 
Austrian; she’s too tall for a Spanish woman. 
Just look; they are wonderful feet, and what 
dainty boots !” 

“She is an Englishwoman,” said Jack, coolly; 
“ an old acquaintance of mine.” Then he drummed 
impatiently on the little table between him and 
the Frenchman, whose top was plentifully strewn 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


261 


with sticky rings and spots left by lemonade glasses 
and ice-cream plates. 

An Englishwoman, — impossible !” cried Ram- 
bert. “ An Englishwoman with such feet !” 

Signs and wonders happen !” replied Jack, 
mockingly, drumming faster and faster on the 
marble top of the little table. “Will Rambert 
never stop staring after pretty Mrs. Delany he 
asked himself. 

Something which he had forced into the depths 
of his being had stirred in his breast. What had 
formerly been a mere vague, anxious foreboding 
was suddenly transformed into a passionate yearn- 
ing, rushing straight towards its goal. 

Meanwhile, Rambert tapped his ice-cream plate 
with his knife to attract the waiter’s attention; 
then became absorbed in ordering a masagran. He 
had great difficulty in making the man understand 
what he meant. 

Jack was wild with impatience. “You seem 
to have entirely forgotten that you stopped short 
in the most exciting chapter of your sensational 
romance,” he said, at last. 

“ My sensational romance ?” Rambert hesitated. 
“ Oh, yes, I was in the midst of telling you poor 
Angiolina’s antecedents, but you showed so little 
interest in my story.” 

“ Sensational novels possess the power of making 
you read them to the end, no matter how little they 
suit your taste,” replied Jack. 

“ You are very kind.” Rambert bowed pro- 
foundly. “ Where were we ?” He reflected a mo- 


262 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


merit. “ Yes, yes, at Angiolina’s education ; but 
we’ll pass that by. Old Gandini was so foolishly 
fond of his daughter that he determined to marry 
the Russian and make the young girl his legitimate 
child. But he died suddenly of the cholera, and 
Angiolina’s mother followed him two days after. 
The legal heirs seized the property and turned 
Angiolina into the street ; that is, they boarded her 
at a washerwoman’s in the Trastevere for thirty lire 
a month and thought themselves generous. Angio- 
lina was not sixteen ; you can imagine her grief. 
The poor child constantly escaped from her jailer, 
wandered around the Palazzo Gandini, and finally 
sat sobbing on the threshold. The story attracted 
attention ; people began to interest themselves in 
Gandini’s illegitimate daughter, to talk of her 
beauty, her desolation, and the cruelty of her 
father’s legal heirs. The new Principe’s sense of 
moral decorum was aroused, and he forced him- 
self to perform an act of unprecedented generosity. 
He announced that if a suitable husband were 
found for Angiolina, he was ready to settle upon 
her a dowry of fifty thousand lire. Minelli came 
forward. Do you wonder that poor Angiolina 
accepted him ?” 

Rambert paused for breath. The waiter had 
brought his masagran; he tasted it distrustfully, 
and drank it with resignation. 

‘‘ H’m ! Is the story over ?” asked Jack. 

‘‘ Over!” repeated Rambert, shrugging his shoul- 
ders, — ‘‘ over ! Minelli was the son of a small land- 
owner in Umbria, besides being a composer. He 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


263 


was a great favorite; the court-fool of such and 
such a prince, the darling of many a princess. He 
was always on the eve of doing something great. 
When he married Angiolina, he was already going 
down-hill. What more is there to tell, — a ruined 
genius who gives himself up to drink; a poor 
young creature who at first tries to keep her home 
pure, and follows her husband to the taverns to 
drag him out of the mire. Finally, cynical indif- 
ference on one side, unconquerable loathing on the 
other. From this mire Angiolina, after the death 
of her only child, fied to Paris. At first she tried 
to support herself by giving lessons in Italian. But 
you can imagine, — a beautiful woman like her. 
Poverty pressed, and accident led her to try her 
fortune as a model. How faultless her conduct 
was we all know. We all tried in vain to make 
an impression upon her, for we instantly perceived 
that she was not to he bought. Since I have 
known Angiolina’s history, I have seen that it 
needed a poet, an idealist, a fellow like you, to 
kindle fresh ardor in this poor heart which had 
been trampled in the mire. The gulf between 
you and the past was great enough ” 

“Oh, go on ! go on !” cried Jack, now deeply 
moved. 

“ For some time after her flight Minelli did not 
inquire where his wife was living. As he could 
reap no further profit from her, he let her alone on 
condition that she should pay him an annual trib- 
ute of so many hundred francs. She was unable 
to send the whole amount. The scoundrel fancied 


264 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


that she was living in luxury at the expense of 
aristocratic admirers, and wanted to seize her 
wealth. So he came to Paris to look after his 
rights. The rest you know better than I.’’ 

Jack bowed his head. He had no longer 
thought of trying to conceal his feelings from the 
Frenchman. 

Where did you see her, — in Pome ?” he asked. 

“Ho; in a little village between Perugia and 
Assisi. Minelli, who for years has given up all 
effort to do any work, is now living on the land 
his father left him, in a dilapidated house without 
a pane of glass in the windows, and a picturesque 
arched loggia, around which vines are twining. 
I saw her sitting in this loggia with her hands 
clasped in her lap and her eyes fixed on the street. 
She recognized and called to me. Her husband 
was in the tavern. He is always in the tavern and 
flirting with other women. But she would rather 
it should he so. He beats her sometimes, but 
usually lets her alone, partly because he can do 
nothing with her, partly because he is afraid of 
her.” 

Pamhert paused. He had finished his story. 
The Heapolitan love-song had died away, the me- 
chanical piano was now playing a waltz by Chopin 
with giddy haste and lifeless regularity. 

“ Perhaps you now see that you were too cruel 
to poor Angiolina !” remarked Pamhert. 

Jack raised his drooping head. His face was 
white as death. 

“ Did An — Angiolina” — ^how difficult it was for 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


265 


him to utter her name ! — tell you this story ?” he 
asked. 

Yes ; but it has been confirmed by many 
others,” answered Rambert. 

‘‘I don’t doubt its truth,” cried Jack, impa- 
tiently; ‘‘the whole history bears the stamp of 
truth so vividly that it would be folly to doubt it. 
I only wanted to know whether you talked with 
the poor woman long?” — he paused, — “whether 
she — man, must I fairly drag it out of you? — 
whether she spoke of me.” 

“ Spoke of you ? Of course she spoke of you,” 
replied Rambert. “ Angiolina is interested in noth- 
ing else in the world. I told her that you were 
married.” 

“ And how did she receive the news ?” 

“ Very quietly ; as a person thoroughly weary, 
disheartened, heart-sore, and ill receives every- 
thing.” 

“ Is she ill ?” asked Jack, hastily. 

“ Yes ; a little malaria and a great deal of wea- 
riness of life. But she is still beautiful. Paler 
than ever, with such ruddy lips and eyes whose 
yearning and melancholy Shall I confess some- 

thing ? I tried to induce her to return to Paris. 
It was all in vain. Since you repulsed the poor 
woman, Ferrars, she has been indifierent to every- 
thing. Far be it from me to praise her to you. 
You have determined your life ; you are married 
and on your wedding journey ; there can be noth- 
ing more between you, at least for the time. Ha ! 
ha! ha I Pardon an old Parisian’s idle jesting. 

M 23 


266 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


Yet the poor thing is touching. I promised to 
write to her if I should see you again. What 
shall I say to her from you? Just a message, a 
kind word. Pray, Ferrars, give me authority in 
the matter, a blank check to fill up with pleasant 
speeches.” 

Silence reigned between the two men. At last 
Jack said, “Let it pass; don’t meddle with the 
afiair.” 

“ Perhaps you’ll write to her yourself, — only a 
few words ! You know, Ponte San Giovanni ; it 
is on the road from Perugia to Assisi,” cried 
Rambert. 

“ That is throwing bridges across the ocean,” 
replied Jack. “We will let the matter rest.” 

“ Ponte San Giovanni ! Ponte San Giovanni !” 
Jack murmured the name over and over again, as 
he strolled homeward from the Cafe X., home to 
the Hotel Brun, — home to a world in which his 
heart felt utterly alien. 

He did not go hack directly, but chose a long 
circuit, the longest which he could take in Bologna. 

For the first time since his marriage he had 
been free for a few hours ; he felt as if he had 
cast off a burden, and, as he approached the hotel, 
he realized the oppression anew; felt it on his 
shoulders, his breast, stifling his breath, pressing 
him to the earth. 

Merciful God ! 

It was almost midnight when he glided up the 
broad staircase of the ex Palazzo Malvasi, then 


A LEAFLESS SPRING, 


267 


passed along the marble corridor, adorned with 
statues, busts, and pot-plants, to l^o. 25. He laid 
his hand on the door-knob. Jack, is it you ?” 
whispered Mary’s voice. He entered. Mary was 
still up, attending to her correspondence while 
awaiting her husband’s return. 

“ How late you are, dearest!” she said, in a tone 
of gentle reproach. 

“I — I met an acquaintance — we had a little 
chat,” murmured Jack, apologetically. “Were 
you anxious, my angel?” Was it really his voice 
uttering these tender mendacities so volubly ? 

“ Oh, no, I did not think of being anxious,” 
answered Mary. Women of her arid type usually 
have very calm nerves. “ What should happen to 
you in Bologna, where all the streets are lighted 
and crowded with people? But I wanted you, 
Jackie, — wanted you very much. I missed you; 
I’ve never been without you so long since our mar- 
riage, — ^the first separation! You know that is 
always an event in married life. Oh, dear, how 
long the time was without you !” 

She nestled closely to him, and he put his arm 
around her and kissed her on the forehead. He 
had had much practice in playing second in these 
loving duets. But oh, how absurd all this seemed 
to him ! How utterly absurd ! 

It was some time ere Mary succeeded in giving 
adequate expression to her feelings. At last she 
released Jack. 

“I was waiting for you in order to finish my 
letter to Clara.” For the first time she called her 


268 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


sister-in-law simply Clara, without using the title. 
‘‘ She and Bryan intend to spend the next week 
in Perugia. Jack, be obliging and do me the favor 
of going there.” 

The room fairly whirled around Jack; he no 
longer knew what was happening. He hesitated ; 
he would remain an honorable man ; ay, he would 
at any cost. Then she laid her clasped hands on 
his shoulder. “ Jack, do be obliging ; I should so 
like to visit Perugia !” 

“Well, as you choose, dear child; if you wish 
it so much, we will go to Perugia.” 

His tongue is dry ; he seems to himself as false 
as Judas Iscariot. And Mary throws her arms 
around his neck, exclaiming, “ Oh, you dear, dear 
Jack!” 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


269 


VIII. 

“Yes, she is very pretty and stylish; I shall 
have no objection to presenting her next season.” 

The speaker was Lady Clara Ferrars, who, clad 
in a light flannel gown made with a sailor blouse, 
leaned idly back in a rocking-chair. 

She was in the Hotel Bruffani in Perugia, in a 
very large, light drawing-room, whose windows 
afforded a view — across the street leading from the 
railway-station — of the Umbrian landscape, of a 
huge gray church of the Gothic style of architecture 
towering from a sea of variously-shaped roofs, of 
the broad, green plain intersected by roads bordered 
with hawthorn hedges and mulberry plantations. 

Sir Bryan sat in a comfortable arm-chair at some 
little distance from his wife reading a newspaper, 
one of the English newspapers printed in such very 
small type and containing such an amount of mate- 
rial that one wonders whether anybody ever really 
exhausts their contents. 

“ Yes, Mary is a very pretty little person,” he 
replied, assenting to the good opinion Lady Clara 
had expressed. “Under the circumstances. Jack 
could have made no match more suitable.” 

This settled the matter for him, and he again 
became absorbed in reading his paper. 

23 * 


270 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


“ Why, he might have married into a better 
family,’’ observed Lady Clara ; and as Sir Bryan, 
at this remark, stared somewhat ill-naturedly at 
her with his dull green eyes, she added, laughing, 
“ Excuse me ; I had entirely forgotten that Mary is 
a relative of yours.” 

‘‘ Jack’s relative, too,” retorted Sir Bryan, not 
without a touch of irritation. 

“ Yes, Jack’s relative, too, of course,” Lady Clara 
repeated. 

“ It seems to surprise you,” growled Sir Bryan ; 
‘‘ is the fact especially new ?” 

“ 1^0 ; hut it al ways seems strange,” said Lady 
Clara, dryly. With the exception of hunting, an- 
noying her husband was the greatest pleasure her 
existence afforded. ‘‘ That Mary is related to you 
no longer seems strange, but that she is related to 
Jack, too, is positively comical.” 

« Why comical ?” grunted Sir Bryan. 

“ Jack is such an awfully nice fellow,” said Lady 
Clara, carelessly, glancing at her husband from 
underneath her drooping lashes with an especially 
pleasant smile. 

Thank you most kindly,” returned Sir Bryan, 
while the Times rustled angrily in his hands. 
“Won’t you have the goodness to inform me why 
you did not marry Jack instead of me ?” 

Lady Clara rested her white-flannel elbows more 
heavily on the arms of her chair and, interlacing 
her fingers, replied, with her own slow, provoking 
smile, “Probably because he never fell in love 
with me.” 


A LEAFLESS SPEIJVG. 


271 


“ Or perhaps because the property at his com- 
mand did not satisfy your needs,” said Sir Bryan, 
rudely. 

Lady Clara scanned him from head to foot. 

‘‘ How vulgar you are, Bryan !” she cried, sharply. 

The whole vocabulary of the most comprehen- 
sive dictionary contained no word which could 
have angered Sir Bryan more deeply than ‘‘vul- 
gar.” 

The veins on his forehead swelled to the size 
of clothes-lines ; he clinched his fist ; he looked 
as if he longed to throw something at his wife’s 
head. 

She folded her arms across her bosom and smiled 
defiantly. A low tap at the door interrupted this 
agreeable family scene. 

“ Come in !” called Lady Clara. 

Sir Bryan had not heard the knock. Jack 
entered; his face was very pale and there were 
dark rings under his eyes. 

“ How terribly you look, old fellow !” said Lady 
Clara. “ Why, you are as green as a cucumber !” 

“ My head aches,” answered Jack. 

“ Wliat don’t you have now !” cried Lady Clara, 
her tone half laughing, half pitying. 

“ The heat exhausts me.” 

“ The heat ? It’s comparatively cool ; the stones 
are still wet from the last shower,” commented 
Lady Clara. 

“ W'ell, to tell you the truth,” cried Jack, in the 
irritated tone which his voice had of late assumed 
at the most trivial causes, “ I can’t bear the close 


272 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


air of the house, and I haven’t been able to get 
out of doors since my wife sprained her ankle 
three days ago. If this continues I shall go crazy ; 
I can bear it no longer.” Then, as if ashamed of 
this outburst of frankness, he added, ‘‘It is very 
sweet and kind in Mary to be so unwilling to have 
me leave her ; but — hut — well ! I only wanted to 
ask, Clara, if you would stay with her a little 
while, while I go out to walk for an hour, — only an 
hour.” 

“ Why, of course. Jack,” cried his sister-in-law. 
“ You know if I can do you any little favor I am 
always ready.” 

“ What a capital woman you are !” exclaimed 
Jack, enthusiastically. 

“ Sometimes I admire myself,” she replied, 
glancing over her shoulder at her husband. 

Lady Clara left the drawing-room with Jack, 
passed through the pleasant court filled with palms 
and comfortable willow furniture, and went down 
a light, neatly-kept staircase. Half-way, he stood 
still and, suddenly looking at his sister-in-law, said, 
“ Clara, why did you really marry Bryan ?” 

“ Because he offered himself to me three times, 
and my father, who was on the verge of bank- 
ruptcy, told me that the future of my younger 
brothers and sisters depended upon my making a 
brilliant match. I had only the choice between 
your brother, who wanted to marry me simply on 
account of my blue blood, and another rich man 
who was madly in love with me. Under the cir- 
cumstances ” She hesitated. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


273 


“ Under the circumstances ” repeated Jack. 

Lady Clara began to laugh, a clear, ringing, any- 
thing hut mirthful laugh. ‘‘Under the circum- 
stances,” she said, “ I chose your brother.” 

“You chose my brother,” Jack repeated, ab- 
sently. 

“ Of course.” Lady Clara, who was standing 
two steps higher than her brother-in-law, turned 
towards him and laid her hand on his shoulder. 
“You see, my dear hoy, with a husband who is 
well-nigh as indifferent to you as you are to him, 
you can endure the situation, because at least a 
portion of your life is at your own disposal. You 
can have time to breathe, to rest. With a husband 
who loved you while you were unable to respond, 
life would become unbearable. That is the hell 
which leads straight to the mad-house, to suicide, 
or some other sin. These vehement and scandalous 
culminating points of the situation will be spared 
me at your brother’s side. For this I owe him a 
debt of gratitude, and pay it. I make impertinent 
speeches to him, but I am a faithful wife. What 
is the matter. Jack? You are livid.” 

“ITothing, nothing.” Jack shivered slightly. 
“ A little faintness ; it is over.” 

A minute after. Jack had reached his wife’s 
room, and, opening the door, pushed his sister-in- 
law gently forward. 

“ Oh, Clara, how sweet !” cried Mary. This 
intimate relationship with the daughter of an earl 
had not ceased to exert its charm upon her. 

“ I’ve come to stay with you while your tall bus- 


274 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


band gets a little air,” said Lady Clara. “ He is 
looking wretchedly after his three days’ nursing.” 

“ Really, Jack, my darling ?” cried Mary, hold- 
ing out her arms to him. He yielded resignedly 
to her embrace, returning her kiss. 

For the first time his sister-in-law watched him 
during this proceeding. She bit her lips. “ How, 
away with you, my boy !” she cried. ‘‘We don’t 
need you ; we’ll entertain each other a little while 
alone. Good-by.” 

“ Don’t stay away too long, darling, sweetheart,” 
cooed Mary. 

He glanced back again and left the room. 

Almost a week had passed since Jack had left 
Bologna with his wife. From Bologna they went 
to Florence, where, at Mary’s express desire, they 
remained scarcely twenty-four hours. They started 
on the noon train, rushing past cypress-forests, at 
whose feet bloomed the most luxuriant centifolias ; 
across broad rivers which the sun had quaffed till, 
for the moment, nothing remained save a slender, 
muddy rill, winding slowly, sluggishly, along at the 
very bottom of the deep, rocky bed ; past the sil- 
houettes of ancient fortresses which, crowning a 
hill, stood forth in gray sombre relief against the 
sky, a labyrinth of walls, church-towers, crumbling 
palaces, and plain stone houses ; past broad, still 
lakes, whose stirless surfaces in the brilliant sun- 
shine resembled a shield of dull lead, surrounded 
by a dense garland of rushes six feet high ; past 
villages whose brown, windowless houses looked as 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


275 


if they had been recently consumed by the flames, 
and amid which yellow, haggard people stole lan- 
guidly about as if some terrible burden of weari- 
ness crushed them to the earth. Then came more 
green fields, mulberry-trees, and everywhere pop- 
pies, blooming poppies. 

Towards evening they reached Perugia, and 
drove in a comparatively respectable two-horse car- 
riage with rattling bells up the steep, winding 
street leading from the station to the Hotel Bruf- 
fani, which stands on the principal square of Pe- 
rugia. 

This was four days ago. 

Lady Clara and Sir Bryan met them at the door 
of the hotel. For one whole day there was nothing 
but cordial speeches, laughter, jesting, visits to the 
galleries ; then Mary slipped on the Bathhaus stairs 
and sprained her ankle. From that time forth, 
with tyrannical tenderness, she kept Jack by her 
lounge. 

Poor Jack ! 

He uttered a sigh of relief as, leaving the hotel 
behind him, he entered the great square. But the 
feeling did not last long. Restlessness had seized 
him, — -a restlessness which neither had nor desired 
a goal. 

At first he walked merely to keep in motion, up 
steps and down, along the irregular, hilly, narrow 
streets of Perugia, overarched by stone vaults, blind 
to the marvellous picturesque charm of the little 
city, blind to the dark-blue sky visible between 
and above the peculiar blackish-gray angles of the 


276 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


masonry. It seemed as if he had just stripped off 
an oppressive burden and an enemy was pursuing 
him to load his shoulders with it again. He was 
perfectly aware that flight was futile, that the foe 
would overtake him, yet he ran, ran involuntarily, 
till the perspiration trickled down his brow, his 
breath came in gasps, and people stared after him, 
saying that he was crazy. 

After having, in a moment of intense excite- 
ment, yielded to his weakness, and at his wife’s 
entreaty accompanied her to Perugia, the sense of 
duty again awoke within him. He had intended 
to leave Perugia without seeking Angiolina. 

He did what he could to conquer himself. 
But 

His sister-in-law’s words came hack to his mem- 
ory : “To live with a person who is as indifferent 
as yourself is endurable. But to live with a person 
to whose love you cannot respond is unbearable ; 
it leads to the mad-house, to suicide, or some other 
sin.” 

Away, away ! 

He would fain have packed up and fled from 
Perugia that very day. 

Suddenly he noticed that some one was follow- 
ing him, a brown, ragged rascal with broken front 
teeth. 

Jack stared at him. Did the fellow want to 
beg? Ho. 

He raised his hand to his peaked felt hat, say- 
ing, “ His Excellency Signor Ferrars ?” 

“Yes; what is it?” Jack answered, impatiently. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


277 


“ I have a letter for your Excellency.” 

“ A letter. From whom ?” 

“ From Signora Angiolina Minelli.” 

Jack held out his hand for the letter. 

“I promised the signora not to give it to the 
signor where we could be seen. I have already 
waited hours at the door of the Hotel Bruffani. 
I had lost sight of the gentleman,” said the lad. 

“ Give me the letter,” said Jack, imperiously. 

‘‘ Here it is.” 

Jack seized it as one might touch a burning coal 
and dropped it into his pocket. Then he gave the 
boy some money. 

He looked at the coin and shook his head. 

What more do you want ?” asked Jack, ha’rshly. 

“ Some proof that I have delivered the letter.” 

Jack thought a moment, then searched for a 
visiting-card, which he handed to the boy. 

“ Is there no answer ?” asked the Italian. 

“I don’t know; it’s no concern of yours. Be 
. off.” 

The lad did not wait to he told twice. 

Jack now stood alone in a narrow alley, whose 
pavement, made of large, irregular stones, sunk 
towards the middle. 

The windows glittered behind deep, rough win- 
dow niches. Most of them stood open. Flower- 
pots containing scarlet carnations or geraniums 
stood on every sill, and a cat lay oh nearly every 
ledge. One leaped down upon Jack’s shoulder; 
he started. A pretty, black-haired young girl, 
with big gold rings in her ears and hare, statuesque 
24 


278 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


arms, smiled brightly at him. More faces appeared 
at the windows : people were watching him. What 
did he want ? What was he seeking ? Ay, what 
was he seeking ? A place to read a letter undis- 
turbed, — ^the letter Angiolina had sent him. In- 
voluntarily he left the alley and walked towards 
the cathedral. 

Passing the blind or crippled beggars who form 
a line before the door, he entered the church, a 
church full of the odor of incense and wax candles, 
and pervaded by a mystical dusk. He sat down 
in one of the brown pews at the left of the door, 
holding the letter unopened in his hand, and gazed 
straight before him at the red glimmer of the high 
altar where the vesper service was being celebrated. 
Prom the organ a love aria from one of Verdi’s 
operas floated softly, dreamily. 

Jack pressed his hand on his brow, striving to 
think. What could be in the letter, Angiolina’s 
letter, the letter of a woman who worshipped him, 
and whom he — ^yes, whom he also adored ? She 
was summoning him, — he knew that ere he opened 
it, — summoning him from his wife’s side to hers 
scarcely six weeks after his wedding-day, while on 
his wedding-journey. He told himself that it 
would be better to destroy the note unread. He 
was in the act of doing so, when pity raised the 
insinuating voice which pleads in behalf of all 
great temptations and leads to sin : Hide behind 
me; make yourself very small. I will carry you 
through. He had no right to destroy a dying 
woman’s letter unread, said pity. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 279 

Pity conquered. He opened the letter and 
read : 

“ Ponte San Giovanni. 

“Day after day has passed since in Paris you 
kissed me for the first time and, directly after, 
thrust me from you. How they will soon num- 
ber three hundred and sixty-five, — a year, a 
whole year since the date of my happiness, my 
misery. 

“ Meanwhile my life has been what it could not 
fail to he away from you — and at his side, — loathing 
and torture. 

“ I should have fiung it from me long ago, had 
not the yearning to see you once more ere I died 
prevented me from closing my eyes. But I can- 
not die, — do you hear ? — I cannot, ere I have seen 
you again ; just once, for a single hour, fifteen min- 
utes, a moment. One kiss, only one, — ^then I will 
die — gladly. What angered you so deeply ? — that 
I was not what you believed me ? I was not to 
blame. Or that I deceived you ? Yes, I might have 
been truthful ; hut, oh, heaven ! It was in my little 
room ; do you remember ? The fiowers which we 
had gathered were standing around us ; you had 
just given me the first kiss. How long I had 
waited for that kiss, you dear, foolish fellow ! — half- 
famishing for it. And scarcely had you bestowed 
it, in the very midst of my heaven of bliss, you 
asked a question which tore me from my rapture 
down to the wretchedness, the slough of misery of 
my past. And so I lied, — ^lied, although what 1 had 
to confess was no baseness, only a misfortune, — lied 


280 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


because I knew that what I ought to confess to 
you would lower me in your eyes, even though it 
was hut misfortune. I lied, — lied, though I knew 
that, sooner or later, I would he compelled to own 
the truth, — ^lied in order to keep one hour of joy 
free from memories and explanations which would 
have sullied it. Perhaps I lied simply because, at 
that moment, I had forgotten everything which 
was past. 

‘‘ Had I suspected what you were going to say 
after I had uttered the falsehood, perhaps I might 
not have pronounced those words. Do you re- 
member, my darling ? You said that you sought 
me for your wife, — yes, you really did. 

“You little know how I felt, — ^your wife ! My 
brain whirls when I think that such a thing might 
have been possible. It was not possible ; the happi- 
ness I should have possessed at your side, as your 
wife, does not exist in this world. 

“ I have only reminded you that you once desired 
to devote your whole life to me in order that you 
might not now be too niggardly to grant me an 
hour, a single hour, a moment. 

“ I know that you are married ; Eambert has told 
me so. Since the day before yesterday I have 
known that you were in Perugia. I am ill. I 
hope that my end is drawing near, but I cannot 
die ere seeing you for the last time. 

“ Grant me but one hour of your life, which you 
meant should be wholly mine, — but one single 
hour. Then you can return to your wife and I 
to the loving Heavenly Father. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


281 


“ I shall expect you, as I have expected you hourly 
since the day you thrust me from you in Paris. I 
shall watch for you to come down the street 
through which you must pass. I am almost always 
alone every afternoon until night. Besides, you 
can inquire at the basket-weaver’s at our street 
corner (our street is the Yia dei Frati). God bless 
you! 

“ Angiolina.” 

This was Angiolina’s letter. Jack had deciphered 
it the first time with difficulty ; his knowledge of 
Italian was not sufficient to permit him to read it 
easily, but it enabled him to understand it. 

How he had read it three times. Every sweet, 
tender syllable was imprinted on his heart. His 
head was burning. What should he do ? What 
should he do ? 

He glanced around as if seeking counsel. The 
church was almost empty. A few old women were 
telling their heads in one corner, in another a 
beautiful girl, her brown tresses gilded by a wan- 
dering sunbeam, was jesting with a soldier ; tour- 
ists were passing in and out. 

The priest had ceased to mutter words of prayer 
at the high altar. A somewhat overgrown acolyte 
was putting out the candles. The dreamy love 
melody still floated in soft, wailing notes from the 
organ through the mystic twilight of the church, 
whose atmosphere was heavy with incense. 

Jack read Angiolina’s letter a fourth time ; he 
already knew its contents by heart. 

24 * 


282 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


An abyss had opened before him. Yet his deli- 
cacy of feeling, his compassion, all the best apd 
warmest impulses of his nature, united to under- 
mine his last remnant of the sense of duty. 

Angiolina was ill, — dying. Should he leave her 
to die without making a single eftbrt to lighten 
her suffering ? 

Through the open door- way a soft, warm air 
mingled with the cool, dank atmosphere of the 
church and fanned Jack’s cheek, damp with the 
dews of agony. He kissed Angiolina’s letter, then 
slowly tore it into little shreds ; so very, very small 
that the whole sheet was soon reduced to a whitish- 
gray powder. Then, rising, he left the cathedral 
and scattered the powder in the great square, 
where the May breeze swept it merrily hither and 
thither. 

Half an hour later he entered Mary’s room, 
carrying in his hand a big bunch of red roses. 

Mary, lying on the lounge, with her bandaged 
ankle and loose wrapper, — the correct wrapper for 
a young married lady, — was playing chess with 
her aristocratic sister-in-law. 

‘‘ How long you have been away !” she sighed; 
then glancing at the roses : “ Oh, Jack, how beau- 
tiful ! Are they for me ?” 

“ For whom else ?” taking a chair beside the 
couch where she was reclining. 

Lady Clara slipped one of her thumbs through 
her yellow-leather belt and, fixing her eyes on the 
roses with rather a peculiar expression, smiled. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


283 


IX. 

The dull, leaden heat of the sirocco broods over 
the little village with its irregular labyrinth of 
houses stretching along the right and left bank of 
the river. A heavy sense of oppression, blended 
with a fierce restlessness, weighs on every human 
being. They are weary, yet cannot remain quiet 
anywhere, neither in this spot nor in that. 

Beneath the huge gray-stone arches which span 
the bed of the river a sluggish yellow thread of 
water creeps far below, — the Tiber. The shop- 
windows in the houses on the main square, an 
unpaved main square, filled with cobble-stones 
strewn with hay and chaff, are all closed. 

In the centre of the square stands the Podesta, 
a newspaper in his hand, and beside him, leaning 
on his bulging green umbrella, clad in a very 
shabby gown, with a three-cornered felt hat, fairly 
shining with grease, on his head, stands the pastor, 
a handsome, black-eyed old man, asking what 
news there is in the world. 

The clinking of glasses and a loud uproar 
of song and laughter echo from a neighboring 
tavern. The pastor raises his hand to his ear. 
“ There’s Minelli,” he says ; ‘‘ may God have mercy 
on his soul — or not, — it’s all the same to me. The 
scoundrel !” 


2S4 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


Somewhat away from the great square, on the 
extreme edge of the little town, in a street climb- 
ing up the hill-side, is a brown house, rough and 
unplastered, narrow, almost like a tower, ^vith 
gloomy windows sunk deep in the walls. 

A primitive loggia runs along the front of the 
house, and a bush of dark-red roses twines its 
blossoming branches around the ugly masonry. 
Beside the house, reaching almost to the roof, is 
a large acacia-tree in full bloom. It looks spec- 
trally white relieved against the leaden gray of 
the sky. 

In the loggia stands Angiolina. She wears a 
white dress, and a bunch of red roses in her belt. 
With both hands resting on the stone railing, she 
gazes down the street. 

How often she has stood there in the burning, 
scorching, parching midsummer, in autumn, in 
chilling winter, and now in the storm-swept spring, 
her eyes, full of yearning and expectation, fixed 
upon the street ! 

All day long she has waited for him — ^in vain. 

Will he come at last ? He must come in reply 
to the letter she has written, if he has a heart 
in his body, and in that heart lives even a spark — 
not of love, no, she renounces that — of pity for 
her. She is weary, she can scarcely stand, yet 
hour after hour she still lingers there, gazing out 
into the street. The perfume of the acacia-blos- 
soms grows oppressive, confusing, the sirocco mist 
more and more dense. 


A LEAFLESS SPUING. 


285 


There is no more hope, — no, he is not coming. 
She would not let him go, she, his cousin, who has 
now become his wife. Is it possible that he loves 
this cousin ? Angiolina shrugs her shoulders. 
She once saw him with her ; she does not believe 
that he can love her. When she heard that he 
was married, it was a consolation to learn at the 
same time that he had wedded his cousin. He 
cannot love her, surely he cannot ! A sort of cruel 
triumph thrills her at the thought. 

But why does he not come? He might have 
granted one hour, one little hour to her to whom 
he wished to devote his whole existence. 

She buries her long, slim hands in her black hair 
and bites her red lips till they are sore. She is so 
weary that her feet will scarcely support her, and 
turns her head away from the street. 

Then in the distance she hears the faint tinkling 
of bells; a stranger’s carriage is stopping in the 
market-place. How keen her hearing has grown 
during these long hours of watching and listening ! 
A step comes down the street, a young, elastic step 
which she knows. Then a voice asks, “ Where is 
Signora Minelli’s house ?” 

She bends forward. A man in a dusty white- 
flannel suit is approaching along the street. She 
stands as if rooted to the earth. He looks 
up. His eyes meet hers; she turns towards 
the steps, breathless, agitated, with outstretched 
arms. 

He has come to bring one last ray of comfort to 
a dying woman, nothing more ; to forgive a dying 


286 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


woman, nothing more; to atone for his brutality 
to a weak, helpless woman, nothing more. 

And when he sees her ! 

The twilight deepens ; they have forgotten God, 
the world, and time ! 

May God have mercy on them ! 

In the low-ceiled bar-room of the coffee-house 
and principal place of entertainment in the village 
the din grows louder and louder. 

It is a room which serves at the same time for a 
grocery-shop. Above the door opening into the 
market-place hang garlands of sausages, vegetables, 
and white bladders. Several casks standing about 
cumber the space. Behind a zinc-covered counter 
stands a stout Italian woman with a pale-yellow 
kerchief wound loosely about her statuesque throat 
and thick gold pins in her tousled hair. She 
stands amid a whole battery of wine- and brandy- 
bottles, with her fat arms bared to the elbows, 
and a linen chemise puffing out over her low 
bodice. 

Minelli, half intoxicated, sits at a table, a jug of 
the country wine by his side, playing cards with 
two equally dissipated companions. When he wins 
he throws back his head and sings a defiant mel- 
ody, a verse from the drinking song in his opera, 
which created such a furore ten years ago, but 
which no one remembers now except himself. 

A red-haired woman with a coral necklace round 
her throat stands behind him, now and then ad- 
vising him what cards to play. He wins, and, 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 287 

handing her the jug of wine which stands before 
him, allows her to drink from it. 

Suddenly in an outburst of riotous mirth he 
draws her down on his knee. 

Just at that moment a slender, smooth-shaven, 
jaundiced-looking man enters the tavern — the sex- 
ton of Ponte San Giovanni, who also adds to his 
income by composing the love-letters of all the 
village youth who are unable to write ; an occu- 
pation which suits him the better because, as is 
positively asserted on all sides, he has never had 
occasion to indite a love-missive in his own behalf. 

This contrast between his occupation and his 
personal experiences has somewhat embittered him. 
It is rumored that he spends the time during which 
he is not sitting before his inkstand or employed 
in the church in watching for some happiness 
which he can destroy. 

He now approaches Minelli, and, passing his 
hand over his smooth upper lip, says, with a ma- 
levolent grimace, “ You seem to be having a very 
good time for a married man. Signor Minelli.” 

Dissolute as the ex-composer may be, he still 
maintains his dignity to a certain extent and insists 
upon being treated as a gentleman by those with 
whom he associates. 

“Is it any business of yours, you envious fel- 
low ?” retorts Minelli. 

“ H’m ! Envy is one’s own affair,” replies the 
sexton, shrugging his shoulders. “ If I envied you 
any woman, it would be your beautiful wife and 
not yonder red-haired wench. But” — the sexton 


J y 


288 A LEAFLESS SPRING. 

rubs his hands thoughtfully — ‘‘ Signora Angiolina 
apparently cares nothing about you, so you may 
console yourself with whoever you can/’ 

Minelli’s bloodshot eyes flash, and he strikes the 
table so violently with his clinched fist that the 
jugs and glasses rattle. 

“ I want to know nothing about her, do you hear ? 
once for all.” 

‘‘ Indeed ; well, then ” The sexton suddenly 

interrupts himself and merely grins most signifi- 
cantly. 

“ Then ; well, what then ?” shrieks Minelli. 

« Why, then you probably don’t mind your wife’s 
having visitors in your absence.” 

“ Visitors ?” Minelli pushed the red-haired girl 
from his knee, repeating, “ Visitors ? It’s a 
lie !” 

‘‘ Then go and convince yourself. Two hours 
ago I saw a stranger enter the Casa Minelli. A 
tall, handsome fellow ; an Englishman, if I’m not 
mistaken ; one of the people to whom we say Ex- 
cellenza.’^ 

“ Two hours ago !” cries one of the bystanders, 
laughing, “ and you haven’t had time to warn Mi- 
nelli before ?” 

The sexton shrugs his shoulders : “I didn’t see 
the necessity, and wanted to allow the young peo- 
ple time for a little conversation. It is always said 
that I am a mischief-maker ; I think, for once, I 
have proved the contrary. He was a handsome 
gentleman, — could crush a fellow like you. Signor 
Minelli, between his thumb and forefinger.” 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


289 


All his hearers laugh except Minelli, who, with 
a face greenish-white, as if suddenly attacked 
h^r malaria, straightens himself and leaves the 
tavern. 

“You’ve hoaxed Minelli finely, you old tor- 
ment !” cries some one in the crowd, which mean- 
while has gathered in the reeking bar-room. 

“I?” The sexton indignantly repels the sus- 
picion. “]N'o; the proud Signora Minelli really 
has had a gentleman calling on her to-day.” 

“ But he has gone ?” asks a voice. 

“ I scarcely think so ; at least, his carriage is still 
standing in front of the osteria waiting for his lord- 
ship,” replies the sexton, approaching the counter 
to order a glass of wormwood. 

“Then may God forgive you the mischief you 
have done !” answers some one in the group. 

“Pshaw!” The sexton makes a contemptuous 
gesture with his outspread hand. “ There’s nothing 
to fear ; he’s a man like a tower, I tell you ; he’ll 
squash your Minelli between his thumb and fore- 
finger. If he so much as casts a haughty glance 
at Minelli he’ll beat a retreat.” 

But the crowd does not hear. All have rushed 
out to overtake the half-intoxicated Minelli and 
prevent trouble. The sexton remains alone in the 
little smoky room. 

He sits down at the table which Minelli and his 
boon companions have just deserted, where the 
cards still lie scattered among the sticky circles 
left by the wine-jugs and glasses. Taking up the 
cards, he begins thoughtfully to build houses with 
N t 25 


290 


A LEAFLESS SPUING. 


them ; silence surrounds him, save for the flies buzz- 
ing on the low ceiling. 

They had forgotten everything, — Giod, the world, 
and time ! 

When Jack at last awoke from his dream he was 
startled to find it so late, and told Angiolina that 
he must go. She did not detain him. “ Go,” she 
said, simply ; “ I know it must be so.” 

Her voice sounded so sorrowful that he was glad 
not to see her face, yet the next instant he told 
himself that he could not leave her without having 
once more gazed his fill at her pallid, mournful 
loveliness. 

Angiolina was obliged to light a lamp that he 
might take his last look at her. 

He gazed long and tenderly. It was she herself 
who warned him that it was time to go. 

‘‘You know it was agreed,” she said, in a 
strangely solemn tone, “ only one hour, then you 
return to your wife, and I to the loving Heavenly 
Father. Farewell ; it was joy, and it was a sin. 
I will take the punishment on myself for both. 
Farewell.” 

One more kiss, and he had gone. But he could 
scarcely set one foot before the other. He fancied 
he heard behind him the faint rustle of paper, like 
the sound made in opening a powder at the apoth- 
ecary’s. Like a flash of lightning the memory of 
her last words, which suddenly , gained a totally 
new meaning, darted through his brain. 

Had she taken poison ? 


A LEAFLESS SPRING, 


291 


He turned. There she stood, one hand resting 
on the railing of the loggia, to watch him as he 
passed down the street. 

The moon was struggling through the grayish- 
violet sirocco mist ; its red-gold disk floated over 
the acacia-tree, whose white blossoms exhaled a 
stupefying fragrance. Its wan light shimmered on 
Angiolina’s face, death-pale and quivering with 
agony. 

“ Angiolina, for God’s sake !” cried Jack, clasp- 
ing her in his arms. 

A light, cat-like tread came up the stairs. 
Neither heard it. 

A knife flashed, — ^the assassin’s steel sank deep 
into the young Englishman’s back between the 
shoulder-blades. 

A moment after the street resounded vdth shouts 
and uproar ; men rushed up the steps. Too late : 
Minelli had escaped. Angiolina sat on a bench 
leaning against the stone wall, and half kneeling 
at her feet, with his head resting on her lap, was a 
dying man. 

Ere the physician who was summoned arrived 
both were lifeless. 

Until far into the night the wildest excitement 
prevailed around the lonely, desolate house, beside 
which bloomed the acacia. 

The Podesta came with his clerk to take down 
the facts. They sat in the loggia at a square, 
worm-eaten table, on which burned a flickering, 
malodorous tallow candle. The people pressed 
against the wall, telling each other in low tones 


292 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


tales which surpassed in horror the tragedy just 
witnessed. The light flared in the wind, casting 
its wavering yellow rays on the Podesta and his 
clerk, then on the whispering throng, or a large 
pool of blood beside the bench which stood against 
the wall ; a disagreeable saline odor blended with 
the fragrance of the acacia-tree. 

The legal proceedings were almost flnished when 
a tall, black-robed figure came up the stairs, — the 
pastor, with his long white locks and venerable face. 

He was called “ the saint” in the hamlet. 

“ There is nothing for you to do here, Reverend 
Father,” cried the Podesta; ‘‘ he was a Protestant, 
and she has committed suicide.” 

But the pastor did not heed the remark, and 
asked to be taken where the bodies lay. 

He was obeyed. 

They had been placed on the hard stone floor in 
the large bare room adjoining the loggia. 

There they lay, side by side, both stained with 
blood, which had left only their pallid faces free. 
A woman who had come with the priest lowered 
the lamp she carried till its light fell upon the 
dead. 

The pastor started ; it seemed as if he had never 
beheld anything more beautiful than these two 
human beings, whom even death had held sacred, 
snatching them in the full strength of life without 
marring their splendid perfection. 

He was fairly startled by the happy expression 
of both dead faces ; they looked as if their last 
glance had caught a glimpse of heaven. 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


293 


“ Victims of passion ! Morti di passione mur- 
mured the woman who held the light. 

“ Passione The word sounded strangely allur- 
ing and melancholy in the hare room, whose walls 
seemed to echo it hack with a shuddering sound. 

“ Di passione 

Drops of perspiration stood on the old pastor’s 
brow ; he knelt beside the two corpses, the Protes- 
tant and the suicide, and prayed fervently. 

When, some time after, he left the Casa Minelli, 
his hands were convulsively clinched and his head 
was bowed. 

He wandered through the fields in the faint, 
shimmering moonlight till the gray dawn of morn- 
ing. A restlessness which he had never experi- 
enced in all his long, saintly life thrilled every 
nerve and fired his blood. 

The news of Jack’s murder, and the circum- 
stances under which it occurred, spread all over 
England. 

There were long discussions in the newspapers ; 
the affair was reviewed as a horrible scandal, criti- 
cised, censured, and laid on the shelf. 

The tidings of his death were of course a terri- 
ble shock to his nearest relatives. But, strangely 
enough. Sir Bryan’s Philistinism bowed the knee 
to the voice of blood. The prosaic business man 
lost flesh, wandered among his fellows for six 
months with downcast eyes, gloomy and taciturn, 
as if he felt guilty of a crime. Was it merely the 
stain inflicted upon the Ferrars’ respectability by 
25 * 


294 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


the catastrophe to which Jack’s life was sacrificed ? 
It did not seem so. 

He avoided as far as possible any mention of 
his name ; but if he could not escape speaking of 
him, he never failed to add some pitying word. 

Lady Clara boldly defended her brother-in-law 
through thick and thin in the very face of English 
cant. 

Mrs. Winter wept, aged visibly, and kept her 
thoughts of the matter to herself. 

Even Sarah was indulgent, content to make 
philosophical remarks about the afiair, which she 
attributed wholly to alcoholism. 

Only one person nearly connected with Jack 
remained implacable, — the widowed Mrs. Ferrars. 

After the first moments of grief for his loss, 
horror at the suddenness of his death, were over, 
she felt nothing save the disgrace, the humiliations 
inflicted upon her by the circumstances attending 
Jack’s end. She never spoke of him except with 
the most icy coldness ; nay, she picked up all the 
stones in his past to hurl at him. 

For all these persons the stream of life has flowed 
on again over Jack’s body. His death — as well as 
his life — ^is half forgotten. Even Mrs. Winter has 
taken up the thread of her existence anew. 

There is but one person who has been unable to 
recover from the tragedy in the Casa Minelli, — a 
stranger, the old pastor of Ponte San Giovanni. 

When people talk of him now, they point sig- 


A LEAFLESS SPRING. 


295 


nificantly to their foreheads. He is no longer the 
same man. 

Especially in May, when the sirocco broods over 
the land, the demon of the spring, he roves about 
among the fields, as if pursued by the Evil One, to 
kneel at last beside the iron railing which encloses 
the little spot of earth where lie buried the Prot- 
estant and the suicide. They interred them side 
by side, — both the outcasts. 

The poor pastor often lingers there until late 
into the night, until darkness shrouds the world 
and the scarlet poppies which bloom on the graves 
grow black and shut their cups, or until the moon, 
scattering the haze of the sirocco, pours^ a livid 
light upon the broad, level landscape where the 
flowers are drooping. With clasped hands and 
eyes fixed on the poppies, he ponders ever on the 
self-same thought : that it must he happiness to 
die young in the midst of a last great joy. And 
then he asks himself whether love is a work of 
Satan or a work of God. 


THE END. 


4 


MRS. A. L WISTER’S 

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GERMAN, 


“O THOU, MY AUSTRIA!” 

By Ossip Schubin. i2mo. Cloth, $ 1 . 2 ^. 

“ The young girl of the story is charming. A quick succession of inci- 
dents, voluminous conversation, and a vein of deep romance make the 
book interesting to those who welcome gladly another production of this 
well-known translator .” — Boston Journal. 

"Translations by Mrs. A. L. Wister are among the best that find 
their way into American homes. She makes her selections only from the 
best German authors, about whose books there is an air of perfect refine- 
ment and unquestionable morality ,” — Kansas City Times. 


ERLACH COURT. 

By Ossip Schubin. i2mo. Cloth, $1.25. 

** Ossip Schubin deals largely with scenes laid among the Austrian 
aristocracy. In ‘ Erlach Court' the characters are notably real, or, when 
unusual, are drawn with a commanding touch which gives them a title to 
life. There is, moreover, a vein of exceeding cleverness which yields de- 
lightful flashes on every page The story is by no means dull, but it is the 
way of telling it which is chiefly attractive. When, as sometimes happens, 
the characters crowd too closely, they bring their own excuse in the vivid- 
ness of their being. Mrs. Wister’s translation is of course admirably made, 
and the public will thank her for what she has done and for her skill in 
doing it .'* — New York Nation, 


THE ALPINE FAY. 

A Romance. From the German of E. Werner. i2mo. 

Cloth, ; 55 i. 25 . 

" Next to a long trip and residence abroad an American can easiest 
get into a new and strange social atmosphere by reading a story like this. 
A German estate, which has been a family home and centre for centuries, 
and whose owner has ideas and feelings about as old as his house, is in the 
way of a projected railroad. Of course, the proprietor has a charming 
daughter, and the railway company has a young and handsome engineer. 
Sharp contrasts of character and methods of thought make the book in- 
teresting .” — New York Herald. 


For sale by all Booksellers. Sent by the Publishers, 
post-paid, on receipt of the price. J. B. Lippincott 
Company, 715 and 717 Market Street, Philadelphia. 


MRS. A. L WISTER’S 

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GERMAN 


THE OWL’S NEST. 

By E. Marlitt. i2mo. Cloth, $1.25. 

“ The book is as sweet and wholesome as its predecessors. . . . The 
descriptions of scenery are alone enough to reward one for reading the 
book. They are so vivid that one can almost smell the pines and feel the 
blowing wind." — Boston Globe, 

" This story has the minute delicacy and graphic simplicity of all of 
Marlitt's stories, and it is gracefully translated." — liew York Independent. 

PICKED UP IN THE STREETS. 

By H. ScHOBERT. i2mo. Cloth, ^^1.25. 

" These translations are gaining a place among the standard literature 
of the day. Pure in thought, not extravagant in tone, they portray human 
nature as we each day see it around us. The pictures of German life, 
whether among peasantry or those of the high degree, are both pleasing 
and instructive, and the moral such as will be an influence for good." — 
Norristown Herald. 

SAINT MICHAEL. 

By E. Werner. i2mo. Cloth, $1.25. 

*' The romantic tales of E. Werner, which Mrs. Wister, through indus* 
trious translation, has made well known to American readers, are appre- 
ciated by many who like pure romance to sweeten the realities of life. ‘ St. 
Michael’ abounds in many poetical and dramatic situations, and is full of 
military fire and energy, having many spirited scenes, and maintaining the 
interest of the reader.” — Boston Journal. 

VIOLETTA. 

After the German of Ursula Z 5 ge von Manteuffel. 

l2mo. Cloth, $ 1 . 2 ^. 

" ‘ Violetta,’ as adapted by Mrs. Wister, is a clever novel. The char- 
acters are clear-cut, natural, and strong. The situations are full of inter- 
est, the dialogue is bright and vigorous. The heroine is a particularly 
happy conception, worked out with much skill. There is decided power 
in the book and a delicacy of manipulation so rare as to be very agreeable. 
Mrs. Wister has so sicilfully adapted the story that it could not read more 
smoothly if it had been written in English." — New York Tribune. 


For sale by all Booksellers. Sent by the Publishers, 
post-paid, on receipt of the price. J. B. Lippincott 
Company, 715 and 717 Market Street, Philadelphia. 


MRS. A. L WISTER’S 

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GERMAN, 


WHY DID HE NOT DIE? 

Or, The Child from the Ebraergang. By Ad. von 

VoLCKHAUSEN. l2mo. Extra cloth, ^$1.50. 

" Few recently published novels have received more general perusal 
and approval than ‘ Only a Girl and ‘ Why Did He Not Die ?’ possesses 
in it at least an equal degree all the elements of popularity. From the 
beginning to the end the interest never flags, and the characters and scenes 
are drawn with great warmth and power." — New York Herald. 

THE LITTLE MOORLAND PRINCESS. 

By E. Marlitt. i2mo. Cloth, ^1.50. 

“To insure eager readers for this hook it is only necessary to announce 
it as written by the author of' The Old Mam’selle’s Secret,’ and translated 
from the German by Mrs. A. L. Wister. But we believe that the general 
opinion following perusal will be that ‘The Little Moorland Princess' 
transcends not only in interest but in picturesqueness and dramatic power 
the work which has so largely contributed to the fame of both author 
and translator. We have in this book both the drama and the scenery; 
and the merit of strong characterization is even surpassed by that of vivid 
word-painting. One seldom meets in print a prettier picture than that con- 
tained in the first half-dozen pages of this book, but it has many companion 
pieces throughout the volume. The plot of the story is intricate, but skil- 
fully developed, and the s^le of the writer is not only bright and vivacious, 
but thoroughly artistic. The sentiment is also true and worthy, and the 
work, in its entirety, altogether charming and delightful.” — Washington 
Chronicle, 

GOLD ELSIE. 

By E. Marlitt. i2mo. Cloth, ^1.50. 

“ ‘ Gold Elsie' is one of the loveliest heroines ever introduced to the 
public.” — Boston Advertiser . 

“ A charming book. It absorbs your attention from the title-page to 
the end.” — The Chicago Home Circle. 

“ No one who has read ‘ The Old Mam’selle’s Secret,' with its rapid 
story, its melting pathos, and its strong characterization, needs to be told 
of the singular merits of the writer. That was universally recognized as 
one of the most absorbing, powerful, and dramatic stories which had 
come across the ocean in many a day. The same German original and 
the same English reproducer give us the present volume.” — Albany 
Journal. 


For sale by all Booksellers. Sent by the Publishers, 
post-paid, on receipt of the price. J. B. Lippincott 
Company, 715 and 717 Market Street, Philadelphia. 


• MRS. A. L WISTER’S 

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GERMAN 


THE OLD MAM’SELLE’S SECRET. 

By E. Marlitt. i2mo. Cloth, ^1.50; paper edition, 25 
cents. 

“ It is one of the most vigorous, powerful, and fascinating of the 
series. In enlists the deepest interest from the first page and enchains it 
to the close. It is strong and graphic in its portraitures, intense and 
dramatic in its diversified coloring. Humor and pathos succeed each 
other, while the drama moves rapidly on. Opening with the mischance 
of the huntsman, presenting immediately the catastrophe of the juggler's 
wife, and taking us thence to the home of the austere and cold Frau 
Hellwig, the scenes are swift and absorbing in their movement. The 
writer has a rare faculty of condensed and accurate delineation ." — Albany 
Journal. 


AT THE COUNCILLOR’S; 

Or, A Nameless History. By E. Marlitt. i2mo. 

Cloth, ^1.50. 

" Mrs. A. L. Wister is the most industrious, as well as the most 
judicious and successful, of translators in the department of light litera- 
ture. She adds to the list of her gifts to readers ‘ At the Councillor’s,' a 
romance from the German of E. Marlitt, whose writings are a mine that 
this translator has worked most successfully ." — New York Evening Post. 


THE SECOND WIFE. 

By E. Marlitt. i2mo. Cloth, 50. 

" We rarely encounter a novel that we can read with so much pleasure 
and can commend so unreservedly as this volume. It deserves to rank 
with the best works of modern continental novelists, even with that of 
Tourgenieif himself, whose books it somewhat resembles in tone and spirit. 
It is a striking psychological essay, a masterly study of character, and at 
the same time a vivid and fascinating picture of life. The incidents of the 
story are intensely, though not sensationally, dramatic, and the reader's 
interest increases from the arrival of the bride to the simple but sufficient 
and denouement.” — Literary World. 

7“ y 


For sale by all Booksellers. Sent by the Publishers, 
post-paid, on receipt of the price. J. B. Lippincott 
Company, 715 and 717 Market Street, Philadelphia. 
























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